


WWP (Whump Without Plot)

by Calacious



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Danny Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, One Shot Collection, Quote Inspired, Steve Whump, Violence, alternate whumping, no real plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots that explore Danny and Steve whump, by turns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good and Evil

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am not making money through writing this.
> 
> Thanks to Swifters for encouragement and for catching an extraneous word. 
> 
> This installment: Danny is taken by a serial killer and wonders if the team will be there in time to save his life.

"Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It's a constant struggle as to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other." - Eric Burdon

* * *

"Good and evil, Daniel," Lee (that's what the man had told Danny to call him shortly after they'd first met) said. He patted Danny on the cheek, making him flinch. "That's what it all of life boils down to, isn't it?"

From anyone else, it would be a rhetorical question. From Lee, though, well, Danny had learned that everything required an answer, so he nodded, and then licked his dry lips. "Y...yes."

To not answer would bring swift punishment. A hit, or kick. A blade to his skin. A whip to his back. A hot poker to the inside of his thigh...

"Yes, what, Daniel?" Lee asked, quirking an eyebrow and grasping Danny's chin tightly. He was not happy, but was holding back, giving Danny time to fix his error.

"Y...yes, Lee," Danny corrected, making sure to complete the sentence the way that his captor wanted. "Life b...boils down to g...good a...and evil."

Lee smiled, and then stroked Danny's cheek before pulling back and giving Danny room to breathe. Danny knew better than to let his guard down, though. Lee was volatile, and had proven that time and time again in the three endless days that Danny had spent with him.

"I'm glad that you agree with me," Lee said.

Danny resisted the urge to laugh at that, because he didn't agree, at all. He believed in choices. Good and bad. Not that anyone was inherently good, or inherently evil.

Instead, he kept his head down, and his gaze locked on a spot on the wall opposite him. The natural darkening of knotted wood, the way that it swirled, looked to Danny like a swatted fly that had been smashed into the paneled wall. It helped keep him sane.

Doing nothing, other than feigning obedience, was the safest course of action for the time being, so Danny didn't share his true feelings with Lee. He kept his eyes locked on that mark in the paneled wall, and concentrated on what he needed to do to survive.

Disagreeing with Lee would have earned Danny a 'punishment'. A more accurate description would be an unprovoked violent attack. Danny didn't think he could withstand another one so soon after the last one, and he wondered just how long it would take Steve and the others to find him, and if they'd find him _before_ Lee lost complete control of himself and killed him in a fit of rage, or after.

"Would you like something to drink?" Lee asked, and Danny bit his lip.

This game had been played before, and Danny'd come out of it much worse for the wear, but his lips were dry and cracking, and his tongue was almost too thick for his mouth. He hadn't had a proper drink of water in nearly two full days, and, unless Lee wanted Danny to die of thirst, he had to give Danny a drink of water at some point in time. It was a reasonable assumption. One that Danny didn't know if he could make right now. Lee was not a reasonable man.

Heart in his throat, and fingers digging into the wood of the chair that he'd been secured to, Danny nodded, and winced when he felt Lee's hand on his shoulder. A warning.

"Yes," Danny said around a swallow. "I'd like a drink...of...of w...water, please?" Danny blinked away black spots that danced in his vision when Lee's grip on his shoulder tightened, promising pain. "Lee. Please."

"Here." A bottle was pressed to Danny's lips, Lee's fingers dug into his shoulder, deepening bruises that were already there. "Drink."

Danny obediently tilted his head back, keeping his eyes locked on the spot he'd chosen on the wall. The spot that never wavered, even when his vision did. It was the one constant in all of this, and Danny struggled to keep it in his sight at all times. It was something tangible that he could hold onto. Something that gave him hope that Steve and the others would eventually find him. Alive.

It wasn't water. But it wasn't piss or vinegar either, as it had been the last two times Lee had played this game with him, and Danny drank the slightly tart liquid greedily, until it was pulled away from him. Through it all, the spot across from him didn't waver, and didn't blur, and Danny kept it in his mind's eye even when Lee moved to stand in front of him, blocking Danny's line of sight.

"Sorry that it isn't the water you requested, Daniel. I thought you needed something a little more substantial. Wouldn't want you to suffer from rickets," Lee said, and then he laughed at his own joke, such as it was.

Danny hadn't needed the reminder that they were out to sea on a yacht. Lee kept him below decks. The captain of the yacht had no idea, or at least that's what Lee had told Danny, that Danny was on board. No one, other than Lee, knew about Danny's presence aboard the vessel.

"What do you say, Daniel?" Lee asked, dark eyes hard and glinting in the overly bright light of the room Danny was being kept in.

Whether piss or vinegar, or juice that was too tart, Danny had to express his gratitude. It was a gift, after all. Never mind that Danny hadn't asked for any of this. That his only 'crime' had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was almost funny. He hadn't been targeted by Lee because of his position with Five-0. Instead, he'd been standing in Lee's line at the supermarket, and the man had followed Danny out to his car, sans groceries (he'd left them behind), and the rest was all a prolonged nightmare of pain alternated with loss of consciousness for Danny; some kind of insane pleasure for Lee.

"Thank you," Danny whispered. "Lee."

It went against every fiber of his being to give into what this psycho wanted of him, but Danny had plenty of reasons to live, so he played Lee's games, and prayed that Steve would find him soon.

"For what?" Lee asked, sighing, fingers twitching in a way that Danny knew meant that punishment was imminent. Danny wondered, warily, if Lee would employ the thin bamboo stick that he kept eyeing, or if he'd cut him again. Bleed the sin out of him.

"Thank you for the orange juice, Lee," Danny completed the sentence, offering his off-balance captor a smile that he hoped would not look suspect. He'd been taken to task for that before. Twice. His jaw ached in memory of the punishment that had been meted out for his earlier insincerity.

Lee's smile was easy, and was nothing like the ones that promised Danny pain. "You're welcome, Daniel. I think that you'll find this orange juice to be rather...relaxing."

'Drugged, then,' Danny thought, and he caught himself before he could laugh at the thought that he'd almost trusted Lee to do something decent. The man had promised him nothing of the sort when he'd taken him. He'd promised quite the opposite, and had delivered on it many times over.

_Pain to remove the dross, and then, once I've cleansed you, death._ Danny shivered at the memory of the way that Lee had smiled at him when he'd said this, as though he really thought he was doing Danny a favor. That he was going to lift Danny to a higher plane of existence before removing him from this one, like he'd done for others before Danny.

Danny blinked as his vision began to go fuzzy around the edges, and Lee's shape started to twist and turn, and Danny found it impossible to hold his head up straight as the drugs started to kick in. He should have known not to trust Lee, though, really, he'd had no choice in the matter. When Lee said, drink, Danny drank. It had been that way for three days now, if the date on the cellphone that Lee had shoved in his face earlier could be trusted.

"That's better, now isn't it, Daniel?" Lee asked.

He threaded his fingers through Danny's hair and lifted his head. The man looked like an image in one of those misshapen mirrors at a fun-house. Indistinct. Bulbous. Changeable.

Danny couldn't keep a giggle from escaping, but it didn't matter, because he couldn't feel the pain from the bruising backhand that Lee delivered to his face, or the pain from the corresponding punch to his gut, or the burning bite of the razor as it was drawn across his chest, a twin to another cut that had been placed there before, when Danny had been more cognizant and the action had actually hurt.

It had been, according to Lee, the first of many cuts that would bleed the poisons from Danny's bloodstream, and make him pure. Ready for the afterlife. Heaven.

More giggles escaped him, even when a part of Danny's brain registered the danger that he was in, and he tried desperately to keep the giggles from surfacing. His eye caught a glimpse of the spot on the wall, and he silently implored it to stay there, to help him stop the madness of his mind, to keep the giggles from bubbling forth. It did nothing, though it did stay put, even when Lee wrapped his fingers around Danny's neck and started squeezing, cutting the giggles off at the source.

Unable to breathe, Danny's fingers clenched and clawed at the wooden arm of his chair, and his toes curled into the wood beneath his bare feet, the heels digging into the legs of the chair that he'd been tied to. The bindings, and Lee's fingers, would not budge, and Danny's giggles turned into wheezes that whistled in and out past his cracked lips as he fought to breathe.

He was cracking in more ways than one. His mind couldn't hold onto anything. Each thought kept flying off before he could capture and examine it, and Lee loomed large and imposing in his mind.

This punishment was new. It didn't hurt, because of the drugged orange juice, but it was terrifying, and completely out of Danny's control.

Danny had a moment to register panic before black spots took over his vision, marring his view of the stalwart spot on the wall, and then gave way to a darkness that seemed to swallow him and then spit him out seconds, minutes, maybe hours later. His mouth was open and greedily dragging in air to lungs that felt oxygen deprived.

He'd almost drowned once. It was something, and yet nothing like this. Breathing. Breathing and getting nowhere. Head spinning. Lungs working and working and failing to give him what he needed.

Danny's throat was on fire, and it felt as though Lee's hands were still wrapped around it, squeezing the dross and life from him, making Danny pure, but the man was standing in front of him, in front of Danny's spot on the wall, blocking it from his view, hands in his pockets, a smile on his face as he watched Danny, dark eyes sparkling with malevolent mirth.

'Good and evil,' Danny thought as he struggled to breathe, to see through Lee to the spot on the wall. He had no idea which force would win this particular battle, or even if he now believed that evil did exist. Certainly if it did, Lee would be its poster-child.

As Lee winked in and out of existence in front of Danny's eyes, like a demon, Danny felt that he had to concede this round of the battle, such as it was, to evil, because Danny was all tapped out. He couldn't even breathe, and evil was standing there, watching him through black, glittering eyes, waiting for the moment that good gave up so that it could swoop in and proclaim victory.

"What's that, Daniel?" Lee asked, smirk swimming in and out of Danny's waning vision, the spot on the wall hovering just over the man's shoulder, beckoning to Danny, telling him to 'hang in there just a little longer'.

"Did you have something that you wanted to say?" Lee's mouth was a graveyard of teeth. Straight, white as tombstones set in a river of ruby red blood.

"Good." Danny barely gave voice to the word, throat locking, breath whistling in and out through his nose and mouth. "Evil," he whispered. "Me. You." He mouthed the words, and the graveyard of pearly white tombstones loomed in front of him, taking over his vision, shoving Danny's spot aside.

Lee laughed. Loud. Echoing. It was the devil that stood in front of Danny. Hornless. Gloating.

His fingers danced along Danny's collarbone in a way that set it on fire, and there was a blade there.

Cool.

Cutting.

It, too, danced, and sang, dripped Danny's blood onto the wooden floor. Danny's blood seeped into the slats and sank down into the ocean below where it mingled with the murky water. Tainted it with the rust of Danny's blood, like Lee's evil was starting to taint Danny, seep in past his defenses, sully his brain and soul. It was slick, like oil. Dark and suffocating, and he couldn't breathe, think, move under the onslaught of Lee's evil as it started to take over.

The spot on the wall jumped and swayed. Lee's footing slipped, and he staggered. The bloody blade fell from his hand as he was jolted off his feet by a swell in the ocean that made Danny's stomach lurch.

The wooden door to Danny's prison-hell splintered beneath an onslaught of booming claps of thunder like gunshots, and Danny twisted in his chair, bindings digging into his numb wrists and ankles, but not giving. He couldn't move, and his spot on the wall seemed to wink at him.

Lee scrambled on the floor, fingers groping for the dropped blade, knees and torso knocking into the legs of Danny's chair, making it rock in place. Making Danny dizzy and sick with the motion of it. The ocean swelled again, lifting them, and carefully dropping them back into place.

The door imploded inward, as if a grenade had been taken to it; wooden slivers flew everywhere, embedded themselves into Danny's left calf, but he didn't feel the pain of it. Danny's spot on the wall slipped from his eyesight, and he blinked in confusion as a shadow took up residence in the room. It was tall, and dark, and two other shadows joined it. Shouting. Pointing. Rolling with the mighty swells of the ocean.

Lee staggered to his feet, and the biggest shadow broke off from its brothers and crashed into him, sending him sprawling. Lee's wrists were bound by the shadow, and the rest crowded in, swallowing him with their darkness. Good triumphing over evil. Or maybe evil had come for its own, and would soon turn its macabre grin on Danny now that Lee could no longer bleed the toxins from him one swipe of the blade at a time.

Everything was blurry, and the dark shapes swarmed around him, busy like bees as they closed in on him. Danny opened his mouth to protest, to explain that he was one of the good guys, that Lee's evil hadn't had enough time to corrupt him, but no sound came out. His breath had been stolen from him. Words failed him.

The largest shadow fell to its knees beside Danny, and the bindings were loosed. Danny felt nothing through the numbness of his limbs; the absence of Lee's touch, of his branding blade, was enough to make Danny sag in relief, and yet catch himself in his evil thoughts.

"Danny?" The shadow cupped his face, and eyes the color of a winter sky bore into his. Danny gasped at the piercing familiarity of them, and the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

"Danno, it's Steve. We're here. We've got you."

Danny blinked up at his savior, and willed his heavy limbs to move. They were afire as numbness from being locked down, and kept in place for days, fled them, and when Danny opened his mouth to speak, to reassure his rescuers that he understood, and was with them, a moan slipped out instead.

"It's okay, save your breath, Danno," Steve said. "We'll get you out of here."

"Serial killer." Danny managed to work the words out past lips that felt like silly putty. That's what Lee was, even if Danny couldn't recall reading about any other killings, and only had the madman's crazed ramblings to go on.

"We know, Danny." Chin patted Danny's knee.

"He's killed three other people," Kono added.

"Worked his way from Maui to Kauai..." Lou's voice, a fourth shadow entering the small room, trailed off as Danny let the world slip away, his team's voices washing over him.

Danny hadn't slept since he'd been taken, had merely lost consciousness for minutes, perhaps hours (at the most) at a time. He wasn't quite asleep now either, but was being carried along on a wave of comfort and security that made him feel safe and warm, and like maybe it was okay to rest, that good had, indeed, triumphed over evil this time.

"It's okay, Danny. You can rest now," Lou said, squeezing his shoulder in a way that did not hurt, or threaten a punishment meant to cleanse him.

Steve reached for Danny's hand and held it as he was lifted, and carried out of hell. Danny lost track of where Lee was, who had him. Chin or Lou. Kono. Didn't matter, because it was over, and his team - his family - was there, and they'd stopped Lee before he could finish what he'd started.

Danny answered the paramedics' questions in a half doze, mind a million miles away, Steve filling in some of the blanks when Danny couldn't. He felt like he was floating. Probably from whatever drugs had been in the tainted orange juice he'd been forced to drink.

It wasn't until he'd been settled into a room - wounds tended to; antibiotics, drugs, and fluids flowing into him through an IV - hours after he'd been found and rescued, that Danny was able to finally think about sleeping. He held onto consciousness tenaciously, though. Only surrendering after he'd spoken with Grace and Charlie, and with the presence of his team - the knowledge that Lee was locked up - all sprawled out in hospital chairs that had been commandeered from other rooms and strewn throughout Danny's.

"Sleep, Danno," Steve said, reaching up and grasping Danny's hand in one of his. "None of us is going anywhere. We've got your back."

And with that promise echoed by the rest of his team, Danny did just that. He slept.

 


	2. Golden Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve should've listened to Danny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's turn. Hope you like.

Kind of sideways reference to, "Kuka'awale," which was originally aired February 27, 2015.

"It is women who love horror. Gloat over it. Feed on it. Are nourished by it. Shudder and cling and cry out-and come back for more." - Bela Lugosi

* * *

'This is the kind of thing that happens to Danny, not me,' Steve thought as he cupped a shaking hand over his eyes, hoping that it would help him see a little better.

The sun was brutal and blinding, and the paltry shade offered by the palm of his hand did nothing to help him see any better. He closed his eyes, swallowed against the dryness of his throat, and laughed at the absurdity of his situation.

He opened his eyes, and tried to gain his bearings. Couldn't. His eyesight was fucked up, so was his side. He pressed his hand against it, and winced, brought his fingers back bloody. He blinked against the brightness of the sun, watched a lone bird, dark against the white of a cloud, circle overhead and then swoop out of sight.

The problem was, Steve had no one else to blame for his current predicament but himself, and the woman who'd led him to this isolated place, stabbed him, and then left him for dead.

He should've trusted Danny's instincts. Should've listened when he'd told Steve that this woman was no good for him. But he'd thought he'd known better than Danny, and now where was he? Struggling to work his way back through a haze of drugs, wounded and stranded somewhere in the wilderness off the beaten paths of Waimea Valley.

Though he knew it wasn't fair, and was an inaccurate depiction of his partner, Steve imagined Danny pointing a finger at him, and shaking his head. Getting in his face, and saying, _I told you so._

"Yeah, Danno, you did," Steve whispered, licked lips that were dry and tacky with the sweetness of the drink Mia - if that was her real name - had plied him with hours ago. He wondered how many men she'd done this to, and what had prompted her to do it. Did she prey on men like Steve? Or was Steve her first?

_You should've listened to me,_ Steve's version of Danny said. Lips pursed. Hands on his hips. Smug look marring his features. _But since when have you ever listened to me, the voice of reason?_

"Yeah, yeah," Steve responded, groaning when he shifted and attempted to push himself up off of the hard,slightly wet ground.

Imaginary Danny sighed, crouched down and offered Steve a hand. _Admit it, Steven, you'd be lost without me._

Steve's vision swam as he reached out for a hand that wasn't there, lifting his back up off the ground. Panting, he focused on the wavering image of Danny that his mind had conjured as he struggled to stay upright, and to remain conscious.

He'd lost a lot of blood. Had no idea how long he'd been out of it. They'd left on their hike early that morning, before the sun had risen. The sun was overhead now. It was noon. Maybe a little past it.

Mia was long gone now, and, as Steve carefully took in the sight of his surroundings - scrubby trees and wild grasses, rocks and dusty dirt - he realized that she hadn't left a trace of herself behind. There weren't even boot tracks. Just drag marks leading up to where Steve sat that matched the size and length of his body.

Steve didn't remember much about his 'date' with the dark-haired, brown-eyed beauty. She'd been charming. Had packed snacks and a picnic for the two of them. She had dimples, and had, in many ways, reminded Steve of Catherine.

_That was your first mistake,_ Danny said, nodding, pointing at the drag marks, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the terrain, looking for clues that Steve hadn't been able to find. _Dating someone who looks like your ex._

Snorting, Steve pressed a hand to his side, closed his eyes when spots started to crowd his vision. He remembered the feel of the knife as Mia had sunk it into his flesh, and then twisted it. He'd been unable to move, thanks to whatever drug she'd used on him, but he'd been able to feel everything. The pain had been excruciating.

She'd stabbed him twice. Drawing out Steve's pain, waiting to leave until after he'd passed out. Her eyes dark, breath coming in tiny gasps of pleasure as she reveled in Steve's pain, licking her lips and dipping down to kiss his, though Steve couldn't even respond in kind.

The last clear memory Steve had of Mia was of her pressing a finger into his bloody side, and painting her lips with his blood. She'd smiled, said something that Steve, in his drugged state, couldn't follow, and then she'd pushed the knife in again, slid it home, and twisted until darkness took over, and Steve passed out.

The sun hadn't been very high in the sky, and Steve couldn't remember why he'd agreed to stop and drink the sweet tea Mia had offered him. If he'd have been with Danny, they'd have pushed on until ten, or even eleven.

_But I wasn't with you, Steven,_ Danny said, lips pressed together in a thin line. _And, even though you're seeing me now, you know I'm not with you, right? You've got to get up off that lazy, Army ass of yours and hike your way out of this overgrown jungle on your own steam, buddy._

"It's not a jungle," Steve muttered, but he kept his hand pressed to the wound on his side, and struggled to rise to his feet, ignoring the dizziness, and the ghostly feeling of Danny's hands on his arms, helping him. "And it's the Navy. My lazy, Navy ass."

_You say potato, I say..._ Danny's voice trailed off, and Steve followed his friend's gaze to the overgrowth that he'd been dragged through.

It was dense, and Steve wondered how Mia had managed to drag him through it on her own. She wasn't a large woman, and hadn't appeared to be overly muscular, but, as Steve knew, looks could be deceiving. Hell, he'd thought she was a nice woman, and hadn't known she was going to lure him into the wilderness and try to kill him.

_Have I mentioned that you really need to choose better friends?_ Danny asked. _Present company, such as it is, excluded of course._

"From now on, I'll be sure to vet all of my potential friends through you, okay, Danno?" Steve said, grunting as he took a couple of steps toward where his partner stood in the midst of the trees and wild grasses. His body shook, and Steve had to stand still until a bout of dizziness that threatened to fell him, passed.

He breathed in and out through his nose, willing the scenery to stop spinning, and the dark spots that were encroaching on his vision to clear so that he could see well enough to find his way out of wherever the hell it was that Mia had dragged him. She couldn't have taken him far, even if she was far more muscular than Steve gave her credit for. He'd have been little more than dead weight at the time. He knew, from experience, how hard it was to lug dead weight around.

_The things that pass for knowledge and bounce around in that head of yours can be downright scary sometimes,_ Danny said as he led the way through the dense brush, Steve following at a painstakingly slow pace. _Imagine, knowing what it's like to lug dead weight around._ Danny appeared to shudder.

"Like you don't know," Steve said, panting as he tried to pick up the pace.

With the trees acting as partial shade as he walked within the small copse, trailing behind Danny, Steve felt oddly cold. He shivered now that the sun was no longer beating down on him.

Danny shook his head, and continued to walk just ahead of Steve, easily picking his way through the thick undergrowth in a manner that was atypical.

"Talk about role reversal," Steve mused aloud, thinking about one of the exercises their governor mandated therapist had employed with them.

At the time, he'd laughed it off because it had been uncomfortable, and Danny had gotten him completely wrong.

Now, though, well, Danny, or rather Steve's version of him, was strong and competent, and more than capable to doing what Steve sometimes had a hard time giving the man credit for - keeping his head in a sticky situation, and remaining steadfast and in control.

_I'm not some mindless machine,_ Danny said. He had his head bent, hands stuffed firmly into his pockets as he picked his way through the pathless wilderness, confidently leading Steve to safety. _I'm emotional, because human beings have emotions. I'm not a basket case, incapable of making sound decisions in life and death situations._

Figment of his imagination or not, Steve was beginning to understand what Danny, and their therapist, was trying to tell him. It was just too bad that it was coming at a time when each breath hurt, and Steve's head felt like it was swathed in a cloud of cotton. His side felt like it was on fire, too.

He knew that he'd been hurt worse before, but the combination of the blood loss, the drugs, and being tricked by a woman that Danny had, in his uncanny way, warned him about, was almost too much for him, and he just wanted to take a seat on one of the logs, or large rocks they were passing, and rest for a few seconds, or minutes. Maybe rest until Danny, who seemed to be eerily attuned to Steve's screw-ups, found him.

_Oh, no you don't, Steven,_ Danny turned back, and marched over to Steve, hands flailing as Steve started to falter in his steps, swaying toward a large boulder that Danny - figment and thorn in Steve's side - had literally walked through seconds earlier.

_You don't get to stop,_ Danny said. _Not now. And, as attuned to you and your various modes of danger as you think I am, I'm afraid that I'm not going to make it to your side in time this time, buddy. You're going to have to walk out of this on your own steam and call for help like the rest of us mere mortals. Mia was your kryptonite, Steve._

"I'm not Superman, Danny," Steve said, but he moved away from the boulder, ignored the sharp pain in his side, and the dancing black dots, and followed his relentless partner.

_No, I've always thought of you as Captain America, and not just because of the armed forces thing, and the Steve thing that both of you have in common,_ Danny said, hands moving expressively as he spoke. _You're an all-American type hero. Man of the year, the decade, that kind of thing._

Steve wondered where all of this was coming from, because he'd never once thought of himself as Captain America, and couldn't recall having a conversation about it with Danny. As a figment of imagination, Danny was going off on tangents of thought that Steve had never had before, which was more than a little disconcerting.

_Nothing to say about that?_ Danny asked, turning around to look at Steve, eyebrow quirked, and lips pursed.

Steve shook his head. It was hard enough to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and breathing right now, let alone speaking. A droplet of sweat fell into his eye, stinging it, and momentarily blinding him. He made to wipe at his eye, and somehow unbalanced himself, felt Danny's hands, insubstantial, no more than a light breeze of movement on his arms, steadying him, and landed hard against the trunk of a tree.

"Fuck."

Dizziness didn't even begin to describe the sensation that stole Steve's breath and crawled up his throat, gagging him. He doubled over, stomach burning with the action, and retched. Nothing, but a globule of spittle and something else came out, and Steve felt as though his stomach was being sliced into over and over again. Mia's sharp knife stabbing at him with precise, deadly movements.

_Breathe through it,_ Danny's voice floated over and around him. Encompassed him. Held him up even though Steve just wanted to pass out to escape the pain, wake up and reassess his situation. Something told him that if he passed out now, though, his chances of waking up again were very slim to nonexistent.

So he listened to the voice in his head that sounded like, but wasn't, couldn't be, Danny, and breathed through the pain, pushed away the darkness that kept creeping in, and the dizziness, and the pain that ripped through him, until he was able to breathe easier, and his gut no longer felt like it was being torn apart. Then, he pushed off the trunk of the tree, and pressed his bloody hand to his aching side, and followed after a tightly smiling Danny, trusting him, even though he was just a manifestation of Steve's drugged and pain-riddled mind.

He stumbled after Danny, squinted when they left the copse of trees and the sun glinted off of Danny's hair, like it was gold. Steve blinked at the mirage, but staggered onward. If he stopped now, he would be stopping for good, and something told him that Danny, whether simply a hallucination, or something more, would kick his ass if he quit.

'Navy SEALs aren't quitters. McGarretts aren't quitters. I'm not a quitter,' Steve goaded himself before Danny could.

It was hot, but Steve was shivering, and he kept tripping over rocks and roots, and his head kept dipping toward his chest, but his vision of Danny never wavered, and Danny continued to beckon him onward, toward something that roared loudly in the distance, and sparkled like rippling sapphires in the sun.

And then, when Steve's body had reached its limitations, and he fell to his knees, Danny simply winked out of existence, leaving Steve alone as he fell face-forward onto the dusty footpath, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Steve's labored breathing grew shallow, and his sweat slick skin prickled with goosebumps as he went into shock, but he was unaware of all of this. And likewise unaware of the recently married couple who just so happened to be walking along the path, drawn forward by something glinting golden in the sunlight.

It was a miracle, they decided, unable to account for the golden, halo-like light they'd seen prodding them forward on their hike, though they'd intended to take a different path. The rescue was broadcast on the nightly news, and the story could be found on the front pages of the local papers. The happy, honeymooning couple from Nebraska, were proclaimed heroes, and the rest of their honeymoon was being paid for by a variety of different sources.

Steve was brought to the hospital, and remained in critical condition in the ICU for several days after emergency surgery. Mia was already in the wind, though Five-0 had immediately started searching for her when the call had come in that Steve had been the victim of a brutal stabbing.

"I'm not going to say that I told you so." Danny's voice was a gentle murmur at Steve's side, and he could feel Danny's hand in his. Solid, warm, thumb running over his knuckles in a manner that was both soothing and grounding. "But-"

"You told me so," Steve whispered in a voice that was barely there, and was rewarded by a quick intake of breath and a distinct tightening of the hand that was holding his.

"Steve, hold on, I'll-"

"No, no doctors just yet," Steve said, and he cracked an eye open and regarded his partner, not sure that his mind wasn't still playing tricks on him, and just giving him an illusion of the man who appeared to be at his side.

Danny's hair was disheveled and his clothes were wrinkled, there were dark sweat spots in the armpits of a shirt that Danny had clearly been wearing for days. His eyes were bloodshot, and his chin was covered in stubble that looked like it could be the start of a fairly decent beard if Danny held off shaving for just a few more days.

Steve took a deep breath, and then held it, nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of his partner. "When's the last time that you showered?"

Danny shook his head and barked out a laugh. "That's what you have to say to me? A man, and let me be clear about this, Steven, I'm talking about me," Danny stabbed a finger at his own chest, and spread his hand out wide, blue eyes sparking as he spoke, "hasn't left your drug-induced coma side for six and a half days, and the first thing you do is wrinkle your nose at me and ask when I last showered? Is that any way to -"

"Hey, Danny, ease up on the man." Lou's voice came out of nowhere, and Steve fought off a wave of dizziness as he opened his other eye and struggled to turn his head in the direction of the other man's voice. "I could smell you from two floors down, you don't want to put him into another coma, do you?"

Lou waved a hand in front of his face, and he plonked down into the seat that Danny had vacated when Steve had woken up. He placed a vase of flowers on the bedside tray, and nodded at Steve, who caught the not so subtle look he cast in Danny's direction. Steve noticed the dark circles under Danny's eyes that indicated he hadn't been sleeping well, and that it had nothing to do with his usual insomnia, but more to do with Steve's condition.

Kono and Chin's laughter followed Lou's voice, they each had wide grins on their faces, happy to find their friend awake. Steve turned back to Danny who looked mad enough to spit, though the corner of his lips kept twitching as he watched Steve's reaction to everything.

Kono had a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Steve recognized it as one of Danny's. She handed it off to Chin, who carefully approached Danny. It was almost comical, though Steve got the impression that Danny had been more prickly than a cactus while Steve was out of it.

"It's good to see you awake," Chin said, keeping his eyes on Steve as he pressed the duffel into Danny's hand.

"Go shower, we'll entertain the boss for a few minutes," Kono said, bumping shoulders with Danny. Her smile was strained, as were Chin's and Lou's.

Danny's jaw clenched, and Steve could sense a battle brewing just beneath the surface. He wondered just what had happened while he'd been in his coma, and got the impression that, if his doctor hadn't arrived just then to check in on him, Danny wouldn't have left his side to take the shower that his team had been pushing him toward.

As it was, Danny reluctantly let go of Steve's hand, and didn't move toward the bathroom until Steve nodded in the direction of it. Steve watched Danny's retreating form, the way that the man's shoulders slumped, and he felt stupid for having put himself in harm's way, and putting Danny, and the rest of his team through all of this.

"Stop it, Steven," Danny said, halting just outside of the door to the bathroom, and drawing in a breath that Steve knew meant that Danny was about to say something important. He hadn't even turned around, but his shoulders tensed, and he pressed a hand to the door.

"Stop it with the guilt trip. You had no reason to think that Mia was anything other than who she said she was. Now, I've been told that I stink, in many not so subtle ways. I'm going to let the doctor, and our team, take care of you while I shower away the stink and the grime, and when I'm done, we're not going to talk about Mia, or about how I was right about her, or about why you seem to have a penchant for trusting untrustworthy maniacs with your life. We're going to watch some inane movie, or sitcom, and talk about nothing. Okay?" Danny rested his head against the bathroom door, shoulders sagging.

Nodding, and biting back a curse as the doctor poked him in a tender spot, Steve cleared his throat. "Sounds good," he said, throat feeling tighter than it ought to. "And, Danny?"

Danny turned his head in Steve's direction. He looked beyond exhausted and Steve's eyes filled with tears that he quickly blinked away. Danny quirked an eyebrow, asking 'what?' for him.

"Thank you," Steve said.

Danny nodded, and pushed into the bathroom. His, "You're welcome," was muffled by the closed door.

The sound of the shower running seemed to break the tension in the room, as Lou, Chin and Kono sighed collectively, and turned relieved smiles toward Steve, who grunted and let out a pained, "Fuck, shit, that hurts, doc," as the doctor examined him.

While Danny showered, the team got Steve up to speed on their search for Mia, whose real name was Bethany Rodgers. She was wanted for murder in five other states. So far Steve was the only survivor. She'd been spotted in Florida, and there was a sting operation in place. Everyone felt confident that, in a few days' time, Bethany would find herself behind bars. After that, it was just a matter of which state she'd be tried in, and where she'd serve out her time.

"If you ask me, I think she should be tried in Texas where they have the death penalty," Lou said. Kono and Chin, though his face soured at Lou's words, nodded.

"I don't know about you, but I don't want her back in our state," Kono said.

"Yeah, me either," Steve said, yawning.

"We'll let you get some rest, like the doc said." Lou stood and stretched, patted Steve on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, and of that partner of yours. Make sure he gets some rest. His line about insomnia is nothing but bullshit at this point in time. The man's exhausted, and it's admirable, his staying by your side like that, but the man needs sleep."

Steve nodded, and pondered on what he could say to get Danny to go home and get some rest. It was going to be tricky, because Danny could be tricky at times, and Steve wasn't always sure what to say or how to say it. Words weren't his strong suit. They were Danny's.

"I'll make sure Danny gets some sleep," Steve said, smiling and waving his team out the door.

"If anyone can get through to him, you can," Chin said. Steve didn't feel up to correcting him, so he nodded.

"Take care of yourself, and get better," Kono said. "We need our bossman back."

Steve chuckled, and settled back against his pillows when the door fell shut behind Kono. The sound of the shower cut off, and Steve listened as Danny bustled about in the bathroom, thumbing through the channels that the hospital offered, and settling on a sports channel just as Danny stepped out of the bathroom, a billow of steam curling around him.

Danny was clean shaven, and not a single hair was out of place. He was wearing a light blue tee-shirt and jeans, and if it wasn't for the dark circles under his eyes and the bloodshot quality to them, he would have looked fine.

"Co'mon, Danno," Steve said, patting the bed. Danny sighed and walked over to the bed, rested against it. "You can go home and get some rest now. I'm fine."

"You almost died," Danny said. "You would have died if that couple from Nebraska hadn't stumbled on you. I just...Steven, you were in a coma, and the doctors didn't know if you were going to wake up. That woman...she killed five other men. Five, and you were number six, and I don't think she's going to stop until she's caught and put behind bars."

"The others told me," Steve said, feeling chastised, and yet oddly comforted by Danny's words. "You can rest now, Danny. I'm out of the woods. You saw me through the worst of it."

Danny's eyes filled with tears, but he narrowed them and drew in a deep breath, and poked Steve in the chest with a finger. "Don't you ever do anything like that again, do you hear me?"

Chuckling, Steve nodded. "Okay, Danny. I won't."

"What am I saying?" Danny asked. "Telling you not to get into trouble is like telling a dog not to eat its own vomit."

Steve blinked at that and opened his mouth to protest the analogy, but Danny shook his head, and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay, Steven. I'm dead on my feet, and I think that I'll go home now, and get some rest. I'll be back to check on you later, make sure you don't get yourself into any more trouble."

Steve shook his head, but smiled. Unable to hold back another yawn, he closed his eyes, knowing that everything would be okay, and that, even if Danny was home, sleeping in his own bed, rather than in the chair beside Steve's hospital bed, he'd be as close as he had when Steve was fighting to get back to civilization, because Danny was right here, with him at all times, held firmly in his heart and mind.

 


	3. In a Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the memories of an event are far worse than the event itself. Something triggers a flashback, and Steve's there to help Danny through it.

"People who have been made to suffer by certain things cannot be reminded of them without a horror which paralyses every other pleasure, even that to be found in reading a story." - Stendhal

* * *

It's just a story in the newspaper. Not even front page. But Danny's hands shake as he reads it, and his heart races, and he's a million miles away, on a small aircraft over the Pacific, hurtling toward certain death, trapped, pilot dead, and no hope of rescue.

The third page story bears little resemblance to the one that Danny's remembering. Reliving, really.

It's a heartwarming piece about a remote control airplane used to deliver a ten year old love letter. Star-crossed lovers who spent ten years apart, finding each other and rekindling their romance.

It's a beautiful story, but Danny can't enjoy it. He can't even see the words. They blur together, becoming little more than black splotches of ink as his mind takes him back to that day, and it feels like he's there now, on the plane, moments before it crashed into the ocean.

Thrown back in time, and place, Danny's eyes lose focus, and his hands grip the paper so tightly that it starts to shake, though he doesn't notice, because he's gone, trapped within the small plane beneath the surface of the ocean. Injured and alone. Cellphone without a signal. Dead pilot's head canted at an unnatural angle, eyes open and staring, unseeing, at the spidering crack in the windshield.

Danny doesn't understand why he wasn't killed outright, too. Why the diamond smugglers hadn't broken his neck before they'd jumped from the airplane, taking the only parachutes on board, giving him nothing more than a bullet to the leg and a severe concussion.

Danny hadn't been thrilled about boarding the small plane in the first place, but Steve had assured him that it was sound, and that he could wrap up things on Lanai so that Danny could get back in time to see Grace's recital. He'd missed it. Had missed several other recent events in his daughter's life as well.

Recovery hasn't been as swift, or as complete as Danny had hoped it would be, which is why he's holding the paper in a deathlike grip, and trying to remember how to breathe again, willing the words of the newspaper to return and pull him out of this living nightmare.

He can hear the knock on the door to his office. Can hear Steve open the door, and come in as though he's given him permission to do so, but he can't seem to get himself unstuck enough to turn around and say something even when Steve launches into details about a new case that they've picked up, unaware that Danny's lost in time, a prisoner of his own mind.

Danny can tell the second that Steve understands that Danny's not all there, because Steve's steps falter, and his voice slows, and then he's standing beside Danny, warm, solid hand gripping the back of Danny's neck in an attempt to draw him out of it.

Words, quiet and repetitive, orchestrated to bring Danny back to the present, slip from Steve's lips like oil, smooth and slick. They spill over Danny, and he can't seem to latch onto them, even though he knows that what Steve's saying is true. He's safe. He's sitting in his office at Five-0 headquarters. It's Tuesday afternoon. Danny's got an appointment scheduled with Doctor Grant tomorrow morning. Grace is spending the weekend with him at Steve's place. They're going to go snorkeling at Shark's Cove.

It's the last piece that finally breaks through, and brings Danny out of the memory. Suffocating in a tiny plane that's rapidly filling with ocean water. Dark, cold, terror.

"Shark's Cove?" Danny repeats, and he shakes his head to clear the final cobwebs - the sight of the pilot's lifeless body bobbing in the water, held in place by safety restraints, water seeping in through the spidery cracks in the windshield at an alarming rate, crawling up past Danny's hips - of the awful memory.

Steve squeezes the back of his neck, holding the pressure for several more heartbeats until Danny's breathing starts to return to normal, and then he rests his hand on Danny's back, not quite rubbing at the knot there. A quiet, welcome strength. Something for Danny to borrow right now as he wills his fingers to let go of the paper.

He smooths it out on his desk, and forces himself to look at Steve, to get his eyes off of the picture of the remote control airplane encircled by a heart. There's a picture of the couple there, too. They're in their late forties now. Getting married in the next couple of weeks, honeymooning in Maui. The story leaves a bitter taste in Danny's mouth, and he fights the urge he has to throw up, draws comfort from Steve's stolid presence.

For all the guff that he's given his partner about being unemotional to the point of being robotic, that's what Danny needs right now. He needs Steve's unflappability in the face of danger, or, in Danny's case, remembered fear.

"I figured that with Grace and Charlie coming over this weekend, we could go to North Shore, and do some of the touristy crap that we never do," Steve says once Danny's no longer breathing heavily. "Shark's Cove, Matsumoto's Shave Ice in Haleiwa-"

"No sharks," Danny cuts in.

"That's just the name of the place, there hasn't been a shark there in -"

And just like that Danny's back in the present. In his office on a Tuesday afternoon, arguing with Steve about the merits of big name shave ice versus the shave ice that they can get downtown.

Steve rolls up the newspaper, and tucks it into his waistband. The act is nonchalant in his execution of it, but the gesture's not lost on Danny.

Neither of them make a big deal of it, and when Steve heads toward the door, Danny gets up to follow him, and join the rest of the team for the breakdown of their latest case. Something involving drugs and guns. A run of the mill case that makes Danny breathe a little easier.

 


	4. A Hand to Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stakeout doesn't go according to plan, and Steve gets caught in the crossfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's turn to be whumped. Not that either of them particularly enjoy being whumped, or like taking turns at it.

Inspired by: "The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it." - Albert Einstein

* * *

The beach was crowded. The ocean's waters were crisp and clear. The waves moderate. The sun was shining, and there were no clouds in sight. It was a perfect day for tourists and beginner surfers to be out in the ocean.

Steve could easily pick out the tourists from the regulars by the degree of sunburn, and the style of clothing. But he wasn't in Waikiki for fun, or to people watch; he had a job to do.

He scanned the beach, looking for Five-O's recent perp. A man that they'd been hunting for the past week and a half. They'd finally gotten a good lead, and Steve didn't want to lose it. Who knew when they'd be able to locate him again?

He'd already killed four people (two of them officers), and stolen millions in goods. He preyed on the elderly, often pretending to be a friendly neighbor, or an out of luck door-to-door salesman of home security. He chose his victims well, watching their comings and goings, and that of their neighbors, for days before he struck.

What bothered Steve most about it all was that neighbors had seen the man in the areas where he'd struck. They had remarked to the police (when they'd been questioned after the crime had been committed)that he'd seemed strange and out of place, but not a single one of them had picked up the phone to dial the police.

Not one of them had cared enough to prevent the crime before it happened. As a result, Ernest and Fran Birge had been murdered in their home. The officers responding to their 911 call had been shot, and not a single neighbor had lifted the phone to make a call, or left their homes to see what was going on. The officers, unable to make it back to the safety of their car, or make a call for backup, had bled to death in the couple's front yard.

Of the neighbors the police had spoken to, only one had come forward with something useful, which had led to a partial police sketch. Steve glanced at the police sketch now.

Coupled with intel from Kamekona, they had a lead, and though it was a shaky one, Steve, and the others, were acting on it. Steve caught Danny's eye, and jerked his chin in the direction of a man who'd been on his radar for the past fifteen minutes or so.

He didn't look much like the person in the sketch, but there was something not right about his mannerisms, and it was making the hair on the back of Steve's neck and arms stand on end. Danny raised an eyebrow in response, and moved to get a better look at the man Steve had brought to his attention. He nodded, nearly imperceptibly, and Steve took that as confirmation that Danny's gut instincts were going off as well.

He might not be the man that they were looking for, but he was up to no good, and Steve was going to be keeping an eye on him. He liked that he and Danny hadn't even needed to exchange a word to communicate their suspicions and intent with each other. Part of that was due to having worked together for several years, and the other part was due to their ever growing friendship.

Danny and Steve flanked the man, whoever he was, and went back to their surveillance of the beaches. Kono and Chin were closer toward the shore, a few hundred yards away from where Steve and Danny stood, and Lou was positioned in the opposite direction, looking, for all intents and purposes, like an ordinary tourist, complete with board shorts, a sun hat, and a bright aloha shirt covered in parrots and fish.

Kono was wearing a bikini that left little room for imagination, and had a surfboard planted in the sand beside her. Chin was wearing a pair of board shorts, and lathering suntan lotion on his skin, looking for all the world like he was about to wade into the ocean for a swim.

None of them, as far as Steve could tell, looked like they were officers on a stakeout. Even Danny looked like he was relaxing on the beach, he had one of those coconuts that served as a glass in his hand, and was donning a pair of board shorts that hung low on his hips.

Steve couldn't be any prouder of his team than he was at this moment. They'd really come a long way over the years. He snapped his attention back to the task at hand, eyes narrowing on a man who looked like he fit the description the reluctant witness had given the police.

He was much closer to Lou's position, and Steve relaxed a little when he saw that Lou had seen the man as well, and was moving into place so that he could ID the man. A slight shake of Lou's head, had Steve silently cursing, and he leaned back against the tree he'd been using for shade.

Danny turned toward him, a frown on his face, and before Steve could ascertain what was wrong, he found himself lying flat on his back in the sand, staring up at a sky that was almost too blue. Palm fronds overhead danced in the breeze that came off the ocean. They were almost mesmerizing in their movements, the green of them warring with the blue of the sky, of Danny's eyes that crowded his vision.

"Steve?" Danny's voice sounded warbled, and Steve's ears rang with the sound of it.

He opened his mouth to respond, but forgot what it was that he was going to say, so he closed it, and Danny said his name again, and then again. Steve knew that he should say something, assure Danny that everything was okay, that he was alright, though why Danny couldn't see that for himself was beyond him. The man had two working eyes, and they were staring right at Steve.

Steve blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the world was spinning. Palm fronds, white clouds, Danny's blue eyes - a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that were dizzying and confusing, and Steve realized that he couldn't breathe.

He tried to tell Danny that. Tried to open his mouth and make the words come out, but the only sound that came from him was a horrible wet whistling sound, and Steve wondered what it meant, because he couldn't remember what had happened, where he was, why Danny wasn't wearing a shirt, tanned skin oiled and slick with sweat, hair a golden halo in sun that was too bright.

"Steve, listen to me, you're going to be okay," Danny said, lips moving too rapidly, out of sync with his voice. Steve couldn't keep track of both, so he closed his eyes and let Danny's voice, tense and swift, wash over him.

"You've been shot. An ambulance is on its way. Chin and Kono got the shooter, Lou and HPD are after our man. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this now when I'll just have to repeat it, but shit, Steve, just breathe for me, okay? Breathe. You can do that, can't you? I mean, for fuck's sake, you're a Navy SEAL, you've been through worse, right?"

Steve said, meant to say, "I'm okay," to mollify Danny, and communicate that he wasn't in any pain(because he wasn't), but what came out of his mouth was garbled and unrecognizable as speech, and he could taste blood on his tongue - hot and coppery - and Danny's words came at too fast a clip for Steve to follow.

He felt like he was drowning. Knew that he wasn't. Had no way of telling Danny, or anyone else about it, because his mouth wasn't cooperating, and he couldn't take in enough air to make the necessary sounds.

"It's okay, Steve," Danny's voice was soothing as he spoke, even as panicked as it was.

Steve could feel Danny's hand on his chest, pressing down on something there, could feel Danny's fingers in his hair, on his cheek, on his neck. Could see it all, too, as though he was floating outside of his body, looking down on the both of them, Danny shielding his body from the sun and the sky, the palm fronds that danced overhead, head bent close to Steve's mouth, listening to each whistling breath that passed his lips. He felt at peace, disconnected, and he wanted to tell Danny that it was okay, that he was okay, but he couldn't figure out how to fit himself back into his body, how to make his lungs, let alone his voice work.

"Don't," Danny said, and Steve jerked, fell back into his body with the shock of Danny's fist slamming into his chest, lips on his mouth as he took a breath for him, pushed it into Steve's and shoved it into lungs that filled and collapsed.

It was an odd sensation, and Steve hovered in a space where he was and wasn't, where he could see himself, pale and not breathing, lips purpling, Danny's cheeks filling with air before he sealed their lips together, warm to cold, and took over the task of breathing for Steve.

"Don't do this," Danny said, voice rough, and chest heaving with the effort of breathing for two. "You don't get to die on me. Not like this."

Steve lost track of time. Lost track of how many breaths Danny took for him, how often he pounded on his chest. There was no pain. No panic. Just an overarching nothingness that took over, and made Steve crouch beside himself and Danny and watch.

The paramedics came, and Steve tried to push Danny away so that Danny could rest, but he had no substance outside of himself, and Danny kept up with the CPR, only moving aside once Kono and Chin arrived, and pulled him away. Danny refused to let go, though, his hand moving to one of Steve's lax ones, and, even though he was floating outside of himself, Steve felt the warmth of it, and the way that Danny's hand was trembling, even as it provided Steve with strength, and a tether to life.

Steve let go when someone else took over the breathing for him. He let the darkness take him.

The feel of Danny's hand, solid and shaking was the only thing that Steve bothered to keep track of. It was the only thing that mattered. He noticed when it left him, sought it through the pitch black prison that trapped him in some kind of endless hell until light started trickling through, and he felt Danny's hand, warm and solid, calloused thumb tracing a scar on Steve's knuckle. And that's when he returned to himself, sucking in a breath that made his throat ache, and his chest feel like it was on fire.

"Steve, hey, it's okay, I've got you, babe," Danny said, voice quiet and insistent, hand a solid weight on Steve's chest, gently holding him in place. "You're in the hospital, but you're fine, now. Everything's okay."

Steve blinked in the early morning light that streamed in through the window, and didn't protest the straw that was placed against his lips, drank the lukewarm water until it was taken away. "What happened?" he wanted to ask, but it came out sounding like a cheese grater had been taken to his words.

"You were shot," Danny said, and then he explained what had happened, taking Steve back to that day in the sand, on the beach, the man who'd seemed out of place.

"Turns out, we got in the middle of some kind of drug deal gone south," Danny finished with a snort. "Lou and HPD took down our perp. He was at the beach that day, too. Kono and Chin got the man who shot you. It was...shit, Steve, I thought we'd lost you, and for what? Some shitty drug deal gone bad? He wasn't even a top echelon dealer, just some two bit junkie-dealer, and the fucking gun had accidentally gone off. He hadn't even meant to shoot you."

It was a lot to take in, and Steve got the impression that Danny was leaving a few things out, but he wasn't up to calling him on it just yet. It was enough to have the key pieces of information he needed to fill in the blanks in his memory.

"The doctors say that you'll make a full recovery, but that's only if you take it slow, and follow their instructions," Danny said. "And I'm going to make sure that you do just that; I'll chain you to your bed if I have to...wait, that didn't come out right..."

Danny's face grew red, and he looked away, but his hand never left Steve's, and Steve squeezed it. "Thanks," he said, though he made no promises to Danny about obeying whatever dictates the doctors had for him. It would be interesting to see if Danny followed through on his threat to chain him to the bed.


	5. The Long Walk Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny is taken by some kind of military group, and he's certain that it's the end for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, low on plot, heavy on whump. This is cheesy, and completely sketchy as well. For whatever reason, this took me FOREVER to finish; perhaps I just needed to wait until my break started.
> 
> Inspired loosely by: "When we forgive evil we do not excuse it, we do not tolerate it, we do not smother it. We look the evil full in the face, call it what it is, let its horror shock and stun and enrage us, and only then do we forgive it." - Lewis B. Smedes

It was raining. The wind was driving it into him sideways, slicing at his arms, face and legs as he was marched down a dirt road, rifles pointed at his back. The muzzle of one rifle dug into the side of his face, just beneath his left eye.

Danny stumbled, the muzzle of the rifle scratched his cheek and nearly blinded him before it was pulled away, and he was roughly pushed forward. He landed on his knees, and, hands tied behind him, he nearly face-planted, but one of the armed men pulled him back, and hauled him to his feet.

"Walk." The order was coupled with a shove, and Danny almost lost his footing, again, but he managed to stay upright, and started walking. The muzzle of the gun returned to its place against Danny's cheek, and Danny tried to concentrate on something else.

He had no idea where these men were taking him, or why. They hadn't asked him any questions, they'd just drugged and beaten him, and now they were making him march, barefoot and nearly naked (he was wearing a pair of soiled boxers) in some deserted landscape. He should probably recognize where he was, but he was clueless.

If he was Steve, or Chin, he would know. Both men knew the island well. Danny knew the streets of Honolulu and Waikiki almost as well as he had known the streets of his old mainland haunts, but places like this, (and who would have thought that Oahu had deserted places?) were less familiar to Danny.

Not that he had any way of communicating with his team, even if he had recognized where he was. The men who'd taken him had destroyed his cellphone, and divested him of his weapons shortly after they'd taken him.

It had been a well-coordinated snatch and grab, Danny'd had no time to react. The group of armed men had taken him in broad daylight, just before he'd reached headquarters, forcing him to stop his car in heavy traffic, and then pouring from their armored vehicle, shooting at, and killing, innocent bystanders as they secured him and tossed him into the back of their van. Danny estimated that, in all, it took forty seconds, probably less.

It was insane, and Danny wondered why he'd been targeted when this seemed right up Steve's alley. Some sort of black-ops exercise gone bad. Maybe they thought he was Steve, and expected him to do some kind of Navy SEAL maneuver to get himself out of this.

Well, if that's what they were waiting for, they'd be waiting a long time, because Danny didn't have those kinds of moves up his sleeve, especially when he had no actual sleeves out of which to pull such moves. No grenades, or k-bars hidden anywhere on his person.

He'd asked, once, if they knew who he was. He hadn't asked again. His body still bore the marks of each question he'd asked, each errant word that he'd spoken. He'd learned to be quiet.

Contrary to his team's belief, Danny did know when and how to shut his mouth. The fact that it had taken several days to beat the quiet into him was beside the point. If it's quiet that these men wanted, he'd give it to them. He'd be so damn quiet that they'd go deaf for want of sound.

Danny may have given up his voice, but he clung to his anger and pride, vowing not to let the men strip him of either of those. Pride may goeth before the fall, but Danny figured that he'd already fallen, literally, into the hands of some wannabe paramilitary group.

Their march ended abruptly, Danny was shoved to his knees, the gun dug painfully into his cheek, and two others were placed on either side of his head, the muzzles burrowing into his temples. He would've laughed if he'd been able to move without risking losing an eye, or his head. He had ceased to be a threat to these men several beatings ago.

Rough hands glided across his shoulders, down his back, along his sides, and Danny locked his jaw to keep from saying something that would probably get him killed. These hands didn't belong to any of the men who'd taken him, which meant that Danny's situation had either gotten a lot better or worse. This was either some kind of exchange, or the prelude to an execution.

With Danny's luck, or lack thereof, this was it. The moment, the hour, the second he died. He hastily said his goodbyes, his mind reeling _. Grace. Charlie. Mom. Dad. Steve. Chin. Kono. Lou. Rachel. The godforsaken island of Oahu. Pineapples. Palm trees that swayed in the breeze. Coconut trees laden with fruit. Ocean as far as the eye could see. Damn, cheerful rainbows._

"He's bruised," a low, rough voice said, and Danny held his breath. It wasn't Steve - couldn't be. Not Chin. Not Lou. Not the voice of anyone that he recognized, but the fact that Danny was bruised (hell, his bruises have bruises for fuck's sake) doesn't make this man, whoever the hell he is, happy, which meant that Danny's time was not up. At least not this very second. There was no telling what the man with the gruff, almost mechanical, voice wanted with him, though. Given the way that he was taken, and delivered to the man, it can't be anything good.

"He wouldn't shut the fuck up," one of the would-be soldiers said, prodding Danny with the muzzle of his weapon. "You didn't pay us to put up with his crap. You paid us to deliver him to you. You didn't say nothing about the condition you wanted him delivered in."

"It doesn't pay to make assumptions, I suppose," the gruff voice said, and Danny could imagine the man frowning. Pictured an unhappy Al Pacino. It was not comforting.

The muzzle resting against his right temple dug in a little deeper, and Danny saw those little pinprick stars; white specks dancing behind closed eyelids. He bit his tongue to keep from lashing out, knowing that, even with whoever the hell he was being handed over to present, it would not stop his captors from retaliating with some kind of violence if he got 'mouthy'.

" _Shut the fuck up." Each word was accompanied by a blow to Danny's chest, stomach, lower back, and hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The beating left him panting, and spitting out blood afterward._

" _You open your mouth again, and I'll beat you senseless. You hear me?" A fist was held up menacingly in front of Danny's face, someone else was holding his head up by the hair, making it impossible for Danny to move away from the attacker's fist._

_Danny spat out a, "Loud and clear, asshole," and inwardly groaned at his stupidity and stubbornness. He could hear Steve's voice, like an inner Mr. Miyagi, calling him all kinds of idiot, in several different languages, over the din of the subsequent pounding that resulted from his heated response._

_Sharp knuckles rained down on him, and by the time that the pummeling stopped, Danny was barely conscious. He could just make out a ringed fist - it was fuzzy around the edges - as it hit him square in the face, and his eyes rolled in his head as he finally, mercifully passed out._

_There were other beatings in the time that he'd been held, some of them longer, harsher, but this one is the one that taught Danny the importance of keeping his mouth shut._

The hand on his shoulder, firm, but gentle, jerked Danny out of the memories of his brief, yet eventful, captivity with the men who'd taken him, and brought him back to his current nightmare, rain pelting his face, sharp rocks digging into his knees. Surrounded by armed men, hands zip tied behind his back, no hope of escape.

Fingers dug into his shoulder, adding bruises to bruises, making them deeper, and Danny just wanted it all to end, because he hadn't slept for days, and there wasn't an inch of his skin that wasn't covered in bruises.

"It's over." The words were whispered on the wind, and Danny was certain that he'd imagined them, as well as the voice that they'd come from. Steve's. The mechanical undertones gone; it was Steve's voice.

Steve's not here, and it wasn't over. Danny's hauled from his knees to his feet, by whoever the hell it was that he was being given to, and it _wasn't over_. It'll never be over, and Danny's vision swam as the fingers that were biting into his shoulder now move toward his bound wrists. They were deft, and rough, and not at all what Danny wanted or needed, but they were loosening his binds, and dizzy, his hands too numb to feel any relief; his arms refused to move of their own accord, because they'd been locked in that position for far too long, and he knew that when they did move, they'd hurt far worse than anything else on him hurt.

"It's over. I've got you, buddy," the words were spoken softly - warm, dry lips brushing against his ear - muffled by the sound of the rain and the wind and the shouts of the men who'd held Danny captive as they barked out orders that Danny only had a vague notion weren't being followed.

And he was going down. Falling hard and fast into a darkness that swallowed up the storm and the bruises, and the pain, and the hands that had cut him free. He heard gunshots, like the pop, pop, popping of popcorn. Distant and tinny. Smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder in the air, and then there was nothing, and he was floating on empty air. Alone. Disjointed. In his own world. Not safe, but no longer being pelted by the rain and the wind, or hit by the butts of rifles, or ring-studded fists.

"C'mon, Danno, time to wake up." The words came to him from some other place, and Danny did not trust them. Did not trust the warm hand that he could feel within his, the thumb that rubbed soothingly across the ridges of his knuckles.

It wasn't that he thought that he was still being held by his captors. They had never been gentle.

_Rough hands around his throat, choking him to the edge of consciousness, and then releasing him before he went over it._

_Bare knuckles dancing along his rib cage. Bones shifting, and cracking beneath the onslaught. Drowning on air. Pressure on his chest making it impossible to take a deep breath._

"Danno, it's over." The words were insistent, pulling Danny from the quicksand of pain filled memories.

_No,_ Danny thought. _It's not over. It'll never be over._

Not while he was still drowning and his ribs still felt like they were on fire, and he couldn't be sure that when he opened his eyes he wouldn't be staring down the barrel of a gun.

There was a sigh. The thumb on his hand stilled as the body next to him shifted, and Danny could feel the shadow of a man looming over him, blocking out the light that stung the back of his eyelids.

"C'mon, buddy." The voice was pleading, the thumb resuming its rhythmic pattern over the ridges and dips of Danny's knuckles. "Open your eyes. _See_ that it's over."

Danny knew he was being stubborn. That it was Steve's voice that he was hearing. It wasn't that he thought his captors were playing tricks on him. That was one thing that they hadn't done to him while they'd had him. His own mind was was troubled him; he did not trust it not to play tricks on him, so he kept his eyes closed, and waited for the hand to be removed from his, the shadow to move away, and Steve's voice to quit.

There was another sigh, and shift, and the shadow moved, but not away. Now it was crowding him, and Danny imagined that he could feel Steve's breath on his face.

There was a hand on his head now. Fingers in his hair, gentle in deference to the bruises and lacerations that he'd been 'gifted' with by those who'd taken him.

"Fine, if you're not going to open your eyes, Danny, I'm going to tell you what happened, and you've got to promise that you won't interrupt, or blame me," Steve said, waiting a beat, and taking a deep breath when Danny remained silent.

"It was a training exercise for a military group that you, and I, don't have the clearance to know about," Steve said, unmasked bitterness and anger in his voice. "Except, apparently there were mixed signals, and they picked up the wrong guy to take to their contact. If Chin and Toast hadn't been able to work their magic..." Steve let the sentence dangle.

Danny almost laughed, but knew that if he did, his cracked ribs would hurt, and he'd probably never stop laughing. He'd been right, at least in one sense. They hadn't, apparently, been after Steve, but they hadn't been after him either.

What good was picking a man up, beating him silent, and then handing him over to some faceless third party? What kind of underground military operation was that? It didn't make sense, and Danny was getting dizzy just trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he hadn't been the intended target, and everything that he'd been through had meant nothing.

"C'mon, Danno, say something," Steve begged.

Danny didn't know what to say.

"When Chin and Toast hacked their way into the underground military operation," Steve continued as though Danny had said something, "we set up a different meet. The guys who had you didn't know what their contact looked, or sounded, like. I wore a hood, and one of those voice masking devices, and...as they say..."

"The rest is history," Danny finished, voice low and raspy from lack of use. He still refused to open his eyes, stubbornness having taken hold, and maybe he was testing the waters just a little, making sure that his lack of compliance to an issued order wasn't met with violence.

Steve chuckled, and it was a pleasant, unexpected sound that had Danny opening his eyes without realizing that was what he'd done until he saw the look of exhaustion on his partner's face. The deep hollows of darkness riding beneath his eyes, giving them a sunken look. The wrinkles around the mouth, tugging downward, as though Steve's mouth had been frozen in a perpetual frown for however long it was that Danny'd been out of it.

"How long?" Danny asked, voice almost failing him. His tongue was dry, and he did not resist the straw when it was pressed to his lips, happily drinking down the lukewarm water until it was pulled away.

"You've been in and out of consciousness for just under four days now," Steve said. "You were with those guys for two weeks, fifteen hours, and thirty two minutes. If we hadn't intervened when we had, you'd have been with them for another week, at least, and with their contact for the rest of the 'training' exercise for another week or two, which would be completely dependent on how well you responded to the planned torture, which was designed to break lesser men than you. If you'd have survived, you would have been indoctrinated into their program."

Danny laughed, and winced as the movement jarred his injured ribs. "Can you imagine? GI Joe Danny." He tried to picture it. Couldn't. Wondered how the fuck those men could have mistaken him for whoever the hell it was who'd wanted to be part of their little underground military group.

"Yeah, I can picture it," Steve said, voice serious enough to make Danny take a good, hard look at him. His face was as hard as his voice, making Danny frown.

"It's what these types of paramilitary groups specialize in," Steve said. "Breaking people down; making them into something new."

Moved by Steve's sincerity, Danny placed a hand on the one that Steve's had wrapped around the bed-rail. The same hand that had been so gentle as it ran over Danny's tender scalp was now making the railing shake.

"You said it to me first, Steven," Danny said, squeezing Steve's hand. "It's over. You saved me." He held back the, _again,_ because Steve didn't need that ego boost as far as Danny was concerned, and he knew that Steve would just shrug it off anyway. Besides, they had both saved each other too many times to count. That's what having someone else's back meant, and how it worked.

Steve's jaw clenched and then unclenched, and he took a deep breath, and then nodded, some of the wrinkles around the edges of his mouth loosening a little as he finally stopped strangling the bed-rail, and turned his hand over to grasp Danny's other hand.


	6. Loose Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't think anything about checking out a lead on his own. He should know better by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time to write, mostly because I could not figure out Mr. Alvarez's motivation at first, and then I wasn't sure that it was a very plausible motivation, and then I deliberated about the end, because I was toying with the idea of letting Danny suffer at Mr. Alvarez's hands as well (I'm thinking he might) and worried that it would be seen as too convenient. And then I worried that Steve was too OOC, and that the whole set up was too bizarre, and so on and so forth. I am a worrier.
> 
> Thanks, Swifters, for reading this over, and assuaging some of my worries.
> 
> I apologize for any and all errors.

"And the things that we fear are a weapon to be held against us." - Ian Rush

* * *

Steve was kneeling on the floor, knees aching from having knelt for so long. His head rocked to the side from yet another blow, and he blinked away the blurriness that accompanied it.

His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. The pain of it kept him focused, and in the present.

There were two men. One held Steve in place by the arms, keeping a tight, merciless hold on them that made Steve's hands numb.

Steve kept his eyes trained on the shag carpeting of the room that he was being held in, and swirled fresh blood around his tongue before spitting it out at the feet of one of the men who was beating him. It landed a few inches shy of the man's foot. The globule of bloody saliva was going to stain the off-white carpeting that appeared to be a grisly shade of red. Steve couldn't bring himself to care as the man punched him in the jaw again, making his head jerk to the side, and the man behind him grunted at the effort it took to hold him in place.

One of his teeth was loose. He'd never hear the end of it from Danny.

Of course he'd never hear the end of any of this from Danny, because, truth was, he had made a boneheaded move in going alone to meet with a man who was supposed to have information about a local gang that was blackmailing the elderly.

Steve had thought that he'd be fine going to meet with the elderly Mr. Alvarez on his way home from work. He'd had nothing else planned anyway, and he'd wanted to make sure that the lead panned out before he got anyone else on his team involved with the potential case.

Mr. Alvarez had come into Hawaii Five-0 headquarters late in the afternoon, rather than HPD, to make the report, and had asked that Steve, or one of the other members of Five-0, come to his home to speak with him, because he had proof in his home.

He was afraid that a local gang of youths was involved in the extortion of some of his neighbors, and feared that he'd be next. He'd thought that seeing someone like Steve, or one of the other members of Five-0 walk into his home would dissuade the bad guys from doing any more harm. At least that's what he'd said to Steve.

Steve hadn't even thought to get anyone else from his team involved so close to the end of the day, and without any actual proof. He'd been an idiot, but he hadn't wanted to bother anyone.

Danny had been eager to pick up Grace from school, and spend the afternoon with her.

Chin had a date.

Kono had been looking forward to catching some waves all week long, and the weather was perfect for it.

Lou had a family night planned, complete with board games and cheesy movies with popcorn.

In short, Steve hadn't wanted to ruin anyone's evening by asking one of his teammates to come with him to speak with Alvarez. The man was sixty-seven years old, and seemed completely harmless. He'd seemed terrified, and possibly even a touch senile.

Steve's lip split with the next blow to his face, and he drew in as deep a breath as he was able, and licked at the blood on his lip. It stung, and Steve used that sensation to remain conscious and alert. He could hear Mr. Alvarez's labored breathing, and wondered if the elderly man was alright, or if the men who were beating Steve had hurt him, too.

Steve hadn't planned on any of this happening. He hadn't thought that a ring of youths blackmailing the elderly would land him in this kind of situation, where he'd need to bring back up with him to speak with a sixty-seven year old man.

Unfortunately, the men that Alvarez had been talking about were neither harmless nor senile, and it was them, not Mr. Alvarez, who had been waiting for Steve when he'd knocked on Mr. Alvarez's door.

The two men were now holding both Steve, and Mr. Alvarez, hostage in one of Mr. Alvarez's back bedrooms.

At first, Steve hadn't known what had hit him. It happened so suddenly - one minute he was knocking on the door, and the next, he had a tattooed fist in his face - that he hadn't had time to respond. He'd been taken by surprise, which just served to piss him off, because he was _never_ taken by surprise by anyone, except for maybe Danny. And that he had learned to accept, and anticipate. Most of the time.

None of that was important now, though. The only thing that was important was making sure that the men kept their attention on him, and not on Mr. Alvarez, who was sitting on a chair in a corner of the room, watching as Steve was beaten.

The men had shoved the both Steve and Alvarez into the room, locked the door, and then proceeded to start beating Steve the minute the door to the small bedroom had been secured.

There seemed to be no real purpose to the beating. They hadn't asked Steve, or the old man, any questions. Steve couldn't even remember if either of the two men had said anything at all, but every once in awhile, in between punches, he would catch one of them glancing in the corner toward where Mr. Alvarez sat, and then the beating would increase or slow depending upon whatever it was that they saw on the old man's face.

Steve tried to understand, tried to guess at what it was that the men were looking for in Mr. Alvarez's face, but he couldn't, because there weren't that many pauses, and though the kicks and punches weren't designed to do more than bruise him, they kept him busy.

He tried to plan an escape. Tried to plan a way to best both of the men and disable them before they got to Mr. Alvarez, but the risk was too great, and he'd yet to see a weakness in either man, or a window of opportunity.

A punch to the gut would have had Steve doubling over in pain if the man behind him hadn't been keeping him upright. It hurt, but Steve breathed through the pain, and spit out another mouthful of blood, delighting when it landed on the man's sneaker. He could've done without the kick to the thigh, and the one to his knee.

"You hit like my sister," Steve managed to gasp the words out between one punch and the next, and wondered if he was channelling Danny when he said, "Wait a minute, I take that back. I wouldn't want to insult my sister."

He was rewarded with a pummelling that left him seeing stars and elicited something from the otherwise silent Alvarez. The rush of blood to Steve's ears made it impossible to hear whatever it was that the old man had said. It didn't matter anyway.

Other than a few occasions where Steve managed to say, or do something that made one of his captors angry, there was a routine to the beating, which, had he not been the one taking the beating, would have been reassuring. One of the men held him, while the other beat him for awhile, and then they'd switch positions. Like clockwork.

It was methodical, and purposeful, though Steve could not understand the what or why of it. It had a rhythm to it. Like the two had been doing this to people for years, and had every slap, punch, kick, backhand and switch perfectly timed. Or like it was choreographed.

Punch to the face, to the ribs, kick to the gut because he'd been shoved to his knees, backhand across the cheek that would have sent him rollicking sideways had he not been held so tight, another backhand that split his lip, or his cheek, or just hurt like hell. Punch, slap, kick, backhand, and there seemed to be no end in sight to any of it, though nothing that was done was hard enough to cause too much damage or break anything.

Steve could hear the old man breathing heavily in his dark corner of the room. Could hear an occasional grunt that hadn't come from him or the men who were beating him that followed a particularly harsh kick to the gut, or jab to the ribs. It bothered him, but the punches were coming too quickly for Steve to process just what it was that was bothering him about the whole situation, and in particular why he was bothered by the sounds that Alvarez was making and the covert looks that were being cast in his direction every now and again.

Steve had no idea how much time passed before the men who'd been holding him and beating him by turns finally shoved him away, let him fall sideways to the bedroom floor where he blinked at the blood that he'd spit out seconds, minutes, hours earlier. It was sitting on top of a strand of carpet, mocking him.

His ears were ringing, and the room was spinning, and Steve could not seem to make his freed arms work the way that he wanted them to. They were all pins and needles in some places, and numb in others.

The room was awash in red, and it took Steve far too long to realize that it wasn't his eyes playing tricks on him, but that the room was lit by red light from a source that he couldn't see from his position on the floor.

He was sore. Bloody. A damn fool, but he glared in defiance at the shadows of the men that hovered over him, dark blobs in an otherwise red room.

"Enough!" Mr. Alvarez was up and standing between the two men and Steve before Steve had time to blink, before the foot that had been aimed at his head could fly forward and knock all thought from his mind.

The quickness of the elderly man's movements made Steve dizzy, and made his stomach churn as he realized the significance of the man's command, and how the other two men, muscles flexing in their forced idleness, responded almost immediately to it, and it hit him then that Mr. Alvarez was not an old, senile man. That there'd been no threat to the elderly. No gang. No evidence for Steve to look at.

He'd been duped.

Steve could see the toes of Alvarez's left foot. The nail on his big toe was gnarled and yellow. That of his pinky toe was missing entirely. His heels were heavily calloused, the tops of his feet dark and tanned.

"Uncle, are you sure-"

Alvarez held a hand up, silencing his man. "I'm sure."

"What do you want us to do with this piece of pig trash?" one of the musclemen asked. "Should we -"

"Nothing more," Alvarez said, cutting the man off. "I'll take care of him. You and Kelli can go for now. You've done enough; I'll call you when I need you again."

"We only did what you asked us to, old man," the man Steve assumed was Kelli said as he brushed past Alvarez, kicking Steve in the side once more before he left the room with his partner. "All we ever do."

"It's not like we don't get paid for it," the other man said. There was no extra kick from him. Just a click as the door was shut behind them.

"Come, let's get you up off the floor," Alvarez said after a pause.

He held a hand in front of Steve's face. It was gloved in worn black leather; it looked macabre in the red light. Steve blinked at the offered hand and shook his head, rolled onto his back, and bit back a groan as the room seemed to buck and sway beneath him. Mr. Alvarez's face was a mask of concern. Steve wanted to laugh, but knew that it would hurt his bruised ribs, and it would be pointless. He had a feeling Alvarez would like the sound of Steve's laughter a little too much.

"I'm sorry about this. I really wanted to do things differently," Alvarez said as Steve pulled himself into a seated position.

He held up one of his hands for Steve to see, wriggled his fingers and gave Steve an apologetic look. The wrist was wrapped in an ace bandage. Steve had noticed it when Alvarez had come to the offices, to seek Steve's help. He'd written it off as an arthritic flare up, or a sprain from a fall, not an injury from beating a man like Steve had been beaten.

Bracing his back against the foot of the bed, Steve regarded the elderly man warily. Alvarez held a tissue out to him, and Steve waved it off. His stomach flipped and he wrapped an arm across it.

"Your nose is bleeding." Alvarez titled his head, licked his lips, and pushed the tissue into Steve's hand, and raised it to the bloody nose. The leather of the glove made Steve shiver, and he tried to pull away from the unwanted help, but Alvarez was stronger, and Steve's head wasn't sure that it wanted to remain upright at the moment. Whether he wanted it or not, he was getting Alvarez's help.

Steve did laugh at that observation, and spit out another mouthful of blood. It landed close to his other bloody spitball, and Steve wondered if the old man had a carpet cleaner that he used to keep the carpeting as clean as it was. Now that he had a moment to take a breath and actually look at his surroundings, he realized that the room was a little _too_ clean, and that the decor left little to the imagination. The room was a torture chamber.

When first shoved into the room, Steve had not had any time to look around at anything. He'd been brought down by a vicious blow to the back of his knees, and another to his kidney. His arms had then quickly been wrested and hiked up behind him, and he'd been held in place for the first of several beatings.

The room was dark, but Steve had assumed it was because the curtains or blinds had been drawn closed. In reality, there were no windows in the room. The only light in the room, emanated from a bare lightbulb, blood red in color, that was kept in what appeared to be a human skull fashioned into a lamp. There was no shade for it. It cast eerie shadows on the cement walls, and made Alvarez look like a cartoon version of satan.

Steve shivered in spite of himself. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the bizarre images that it was being confronted with. This, what he was seeing, could not be real.

"So, how does this work?" Steve asked, voice far steadier than it had any right to be, given what he was seeing, and what he suspected.

He held the tissue to his nose to stop the steady trickle of blood, and balled up a section of it to shove it in, and free up his hands. Not that they were of much use to him right now. They were still numb, and shaking.

His vision went in and out of focus, and he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened his eyes again. His vision wasn't that much clearer.

He wriggled his loose tooth with the tip of his tongue and winced. He could already hear Danny's lecture, but he shoved thoughts of his partner out of his head. Danny would not be coming for him, and right now, Steve didn't want him to; a place like this would be his partner's worst nightmare.

He was on his own, and apparently things were a lot more complicated than he had thought they were.

Mr. Alvarez wasn't a hapless, would-be victim of extortion. He wasn't senile. He wasn't a weak, old man who suffered from arthritis. He was some kind of sick kingpin, though what kind of business he ran was still a bit of a mystery to Steve, and he was trying to process just what it was that he was seeing, because 67 year old men did not have torture chambers, complete with a spiked ball and chain, in their beach homes on Oahu. At least not the 67 year old men that Steve knew.

Alvarez sighed, and he crouched down in front of Steve. His dark eyes were sharp and held a touch of what looked to Steve like humor, but Steve could sense something darker lingering in the old man's gaze.

"How this works is I let you go. When your friends ask, you say you got into a bar fight, or some other kind of altercation, and forget that this happened," Alvarez said. "You do that, we both go on with life as usual. You catch criminals, and I...entertain myself."

He smiled at Steve, eyes glittering in the red light, gaze lingering on Steve's bloodied lip, on the contusion that Steve could feel forming on the left side of his face, fingers twitching as though he wanted to touch, but couldn't, or maybe wouldn't.

Steve shook his head and laughed. "You've got to be kidding me." He pulled the tissue away from his nose. The blood looked black in the light. Blood trickled from his nose, made him lightheaded.

Alvarez frowned. "Of course there _is_ an alternative," he said, pinning Steve with a steely look that reminded Steve of a coiled snake ready to strike. "I believe that Detective Williams and his daughter have decided to go out for pizza tonight. I make a call, and have them brought to my place, just before the detective brings his little girl home to her mother, and they find you, bleeding on my carpet, a neat bullet hole in your head. Williams watches as his daughter is -"

Steve lunged toward the older man, heedless of his protesting injuries, his fingers wrapping, not around the man's neck, but thin air as Alvarez backed away, laughing like a jackal.

"I take it you're not a fan of that option," he said, lips turned upward in a thin smile.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Steve asked. "Why do this? Why have me beaten only to set me free? Why the made up story? Why the threat to Williams?"

"I don't want anything from you that I haven't already gotten," Alvarez said, sighing, eyes locked onto the damage the two men had done to Steve. "Any one of your people would have sufficed for tonight's activities, though I do prefer to have strong, virile men at my mercy as opposed to women. I would have done the work myself, but, as you can see, I'm a little hindered at the moment." He held his injured hand up and shrugged.

"What? Is this some kind of -"

"Game?" Alvarez supplied, laughing, and Steve could see that it was.

He could see the sickness that he'd mistaken for humor dancing in the old man's eyes. Could see evidence of the depth of the man's deprivation surrounding him in the dungeon-like room.

"Yes, it's a game. One that I've been playing for a very long time now," Alvarez said. "And one that I've been getting away with for a long time. Decades even. See this room? Take a good look. It took me years to perfect it. Years to find the right men to help me, and years to train them. They call me uncle, but the only blood we share between us is the blood that we spill together."

Steve looked around the room, crushed the bloody tissue in his hand which was starting to feel the stabbing of the pins and needles as it regained feeling. Saw what he hadn't seen before with his hampered line of vision, and the assault.

A series of baseball bats lined one wall - metal, wood, plastic, spiked. Another wall housed an impressive set of swords, rifles, some with bayonets, and a compound bow with a quiver full of arrows, and there was a bullwhip that looked like it was used often enough for the leather to have cracked in places. There were metal arm, leg and neck shackles on the wall across from the door.

The chair that Alvarez had sat in to watch Steve's beating was created from what appeared to be a refurbished antique electric chair. The bed that Steve was leaning against was comprised of nails.

The man was a sadist, or one of those...Steve forgot the word for it. Danny would know it, but Steve didn't want to bring Danny into this, even in his thoughts. It was bad enough that Alvarez, and Steve doubted that Alvarez was the man's real name, had mentioned Danny at all.

Steve's heart skipped a beat, and he couldn't help the hitch in his breath as he realized what it was that he was seeing. He wanted to pinch himself to prove that this was a nightmare. Wanted to clear his head so that he could stand up and get out of this room, escape the nightmare that was crouched in front of him - a devil in the guise of a man.

Alvarez laughed, patted Steve on the cheek. "You're my first lawman. To be honest, I was hoping to get you, or Detective Williams. I was getting a tad...bored with the run of the mill men I'd been playing this game with, and thought I'd up the ante just a little. Businessmen and bodybuilders are so easy to break. I've got to tell you, it was quite the adrenaline rush, orchestrating the beating of a member of Five-0. I think I'll do it again. Maybe take someone else from your task force, or from HPD."

"You fucking..." Steve's world tilted and he lost his ability to talk, and to sit upright, and he struggled to breathe, to regain control of his body.

"That'll be the drug kicking in," Alvarez said, smiling. "Call it my backup plan. I can't count on all of my conquests to be discreet about the time that we've spent together."

Steve blinked through the red haze in his eyes. A fiber of carpeting went up his nose and tickled it, but he didn't sneeze, he could barely breathe. His thoughts were jumbled and his vision was fuzzy. He didn't remember being drugged, wondered how, and when, Alvarez had managed to do it. Had the drug been infused in the tissue that he'd been given?

"It'll give my 'nephews' plenty of time to return and drop you off at a hole in the wall bar, and text your partner to come pick you up. I trust that you'll stay quiet about this little...affair...because if you don't, Williams will be next, and I'd wager that my wrist will be well healed by then, and I'll be able to play with him myself," Alvarez said, and this time he got close enough to touch Steve, and he ran his fingers through Steve's hair. "I like to take my time when I play. Like to use more than just my fists and my feet when I'm not sidelined. After all, what's the point in having toys if you never get to use them?"

Steve's vision dimmed, Alvarez's words and laughter echoed in his mind long after he'd been hauled out of the room by the man's 'nephews' who'd returned to finish his dirty work for him. Steve was aware, and yet he wasn't aware.

The world swam in and out of focus, the streetlights blurred past, and Steve was dimly cognizant of the fact that it was now dark out, and that he must've been with Alvarez and his goons for several hours. It felt like only minutes had passed, and at the same time he felt like he'd been with the men for days. Maybe he had.

Steve held onto the vague hope that someone at the bar would realize that something was wrong, but no one seemed to notice, or care, that he was being carted in between two very muscular men, that he couldn't make his own two feet work, and that he needed help drinking the whiskey that his 'buddies' bought him. Two, three, four whiskies later, and Steve wasn't able to sit upright on his own. The men propped him up in a corner of the booth.

His phone was jimmied out of his pocket, a series of texts were sent, and from one blink to the next, Steve was staring, not at the back of a tattooed hand, but into the face a his very concerned, and _angry_ , friend.

Danny said nothing as he helped Steve from the bar, paying the unpaid tab, and buckled Steve into the passenger side of the car. He said nothing on the drive to Steve's place. Said nothing as he got Steve from the car to his bedroom and helped him out of his clothes and into a pair of sweats, got him a couple of bottles of water and fed him four aspirin, and wiped the blood off his face.

Danny patched him up, placing bandages on the worst of the cuts, wincing when Steve did. All without saying a single word, which had to be a record of sorts. Danny's silences never boded well. If he was ranting, or lecturing, about something, everything was okay.

Steve could read his best friend's face, though. It was awash with warring emotions - anger, concern, fear, and something that Steve was afraid to acknowledge in his current state of vulnerability.

Danny was gentle, yet efficient, as he took care of Steve, and it made Steve want to hide himself, for just a little while, in the strength and comfort of his friend's arms, but he didn't. Couldn't.

He knew what this had to look like - a drunken brawl, poor judgement on his part - and wanted to say something, anything, but the muscles of his mouth wouldn't work right, and he didn't know what he _would_ say if he could get them to work properly. The truth: _A man lured me to his house and had me beaten for his enjoyment,_ seemed like the stuff of B rated movies, snuff films, and stories created by overactive imaginations run wild, not reality.

What happened with Alvarez already felt distant, and seemed surreal, and like he'd made it all up in his head. It was hard for Steve to tell what _was_ real and what wasn't real with alcohol and the mystery drug running through his system. It was all a very fucked up dream, and he wasn't even sure that Danny - brow wrinkled in worry, lips pursed in anger, blue eyes filled with concern - was real.

There were elephants dancing clumsily in his head, and they were wielding hammers in their trunks, banging on the inside of Steve's brain, creating a cacophony of pain and misery. Steve knew that this was just the beginning of his nightmare, and that, come morning, or as soon as the drug that he'd been given, and the alcohol, wore off, he'd be in a hell of a lot more pain than he currently was. Right now everything was dull and distant.

Nothing was broken, and he did not, in spite of the fact that his head was apparently hosting a Civil War reenactment, have a concussion. He was deeply bruised, yes, but he wasn't permanently damaged, and that was something he needed to communicate to Danny before he was rushed off to the nearest hospital, or gained Danny as a nursemaid.

Steve stiffened when he felt Danny's hands on him, patting him down gently, yet firmly, to assess Steve's injuries.

Steve didn't have the energy to push Danny's hands away, which, if he hadn't felt like shit, would have bothered him. But he was tired, and Danny's hands, in spite of finding all of the bumps and bruises that adorned Steve's chest, were gentle and efficient, and Steve sighed, because the light dancing of Danny's fingers was soothing some of the bone deep aches.

"Nothing's broken," Danny said quietly, relieved. He sagged down beside Steve, and combed his fingers through his hair. Sighing, he stared long and hard at Steve, blue eyes glittering in the dimly lit room.

Steve felt small. Vulnerable. His heart and mind ached at the look that his partner gave him. And Alvarez's words came back to him: _Williams will be next, and I'd wager that my wrist will be well healed by then, and I'll be able to play with him myself._

Steve couldn't shake the fear that if he didn't somehow push himself out of this fugue, tell Danny what had really happened to him, he'd fall asleep, wake, and find Danny gone. That Alvarez's words, in spite of Steve's silence, would come true, and Danny would be the man's next victim.

"We'll talk later," Danny said, voice quiet and tight, face a myriad of emotions held firmly in check. "After you've slept this off. I've sent Kono and Chin to go pick up your truck."

Danny patted him on the arm, and started to rise from the edge of the bed, but a vision of Alvarez's face, eyes glowing red in the light of that single bulb, Danny shackled to the wall, wrists bloodied and swollen from failed attempts to free himself, head hanging low, blue eyes dull, flashed in Steve's mind, and he didn't want to be alone. Didn't want Danny to leave.

Steve wasn't afraid of taking another beating, and he knew that Danny could take a beating, too, if it came to that. They'd both been through worse. Much worse. Nothing had been broken, and Steve doubted that any of his ribs had even been cracked. Deeply bruised, yes, but nothing more than that.

Hell, he'd been tortured before, but he'd never been broken. Danny had, too. And it wasn't that he was broken now, or that he feared Danny would be broken if Alvarez did manage to get to his partner before Steve could end him, but, if he was honest with himself, he was a little afraid, because men like Alvarez weren't sane, and they didn't operate by the same rules that those who tortured men for information did. Men like Alvarez had rules of their own. Rules that defied logic. Rules that weren't rules.

Steve's chest filled with panic as Danny moved to leave, and though his skin virtually itched with the desire to do something to stop his partner from leaving, he couldn't make a single muscle cooperate. Vision turning red, and graying at the edges, Steve pushed himself harder, pushed himself past whatever drug had been forced into his system through contact with his skin, past the alcohol, past the mind-numbing fear, and managed, somehow, to coax out a single syllable - _Stay -_ from between lips that refused to move. It was mostly breath, nothing more than a puff of air really, but Danny heard it, and turned, and, by virtue of some miracle, stayed.

Nodding, and giving Steve a look that communicated just how crazy he thought his partner was, Danny shucked off his shoes, and got onto the other side of the bed.

"We _will_ talk," he reiterated, and without another word, seeming to know that Steve needed the physical contact, he draped an arm over Steve.

Head settled on the pillow, completely clothed, above the covers that he'd tucked Steve into several minutes ago, Danny sighed, and whispered, "Sleep, Steven."

Between one breath and the next, Steve was asleep and awake, and shielding his eyes from the sun, and from Danny's overly bright smile. He blinked at the sight, certain that his eyes were playing tricks on him, and unsure what Danny was doing, standing in his bedroom, hovering over him, wielding a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Morning, sunshine," Danny said. "Or, should I say, good afternoon?" Danny sat the coffee on the table beside the bed.

"What time is it?" Steve's voice was whisper soft and his mouth was so dry that he wondered if he'd eaten sand. His mind was fuzzy, like the socks that he could see adorning Danny's feet, and something niggled at him, a memory, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It slipped, and kept slipping from his mind every time he almost had a hold of it.

"Time for you, my friend, to get your lazy ass out of bed," Danny said a little too cheerfully.

He held a hand out to Steve, and something clicked in Steve's mind. Another hand. A tissue. Blood red cement walls. Steve flinched away from the hand.

"Want to tell me what happened?" Danny asked, hands tucked underneath his arms, brows knit together in confusion and concern.

"No," Steve said, wincing as he tried to push himself upright, and failed.

Every muscle in his body protested any movement, no matter how minor, and he wondered if he looked as bruised, and battered, as he felt. His head hurt, and he couldn't make sense of the disjointed memories that bombarded his mind.

_What the hell happened to me?_ Steve wondered.

Danny nodded, lips pursed. "I see, so, it's okay for you to drunk text me to come pick you up at an ungodly hour of the morning at some bar where it's clear that you got into some kind of brawl, drag your ass home, and tuck you into bed, but you can't be bothered to explain how the fuck your face happened to get turned into something that's better suited to Frankenstein's second cousin twice removed? Thanks for the inconvenience, pal. I'm out of here."

"Wait," Steve rasped, blinking, trying to make sense of Danny's words. Had he gotten drunk and texted Danny after getting into a fight? Had the police been called? Would he have a reprimand from the governor to look forward to?

His body ached, and he touched a finger to his swollen lip, found the split there and winced. Image after image flooded his mind: a tattooed hand, a yellowing toenail, shag carpeting, and blood coloring everything a sickly red. His stomach clenched.

"Here." Danny held out a water bottle and a couple aspirin, helped prop Steve up so that he could take the pills, and ease some of the dryness of his throat and mouth.

"What the hell happened, Steve?" Danny fluffed the pillows, and helped ease Steve back against them.

Steve closed his eyes against a sudden dizzy spell, and pressed the tips of his fingers to his brow. He swallowed a surge of fiery bile, and, when he was certain that he could keep everything in his roiling stomach down, took a deep, fortifying breath.

"I'm not sure," Steve admitted. The thought of not knowing, of not being able to piece everything together in his mind terrified him.

None of the jumbled images in his mind made sense. There was a dark, fuzzy edge to everything, and when he pressed himself to remember more, his mind provided him with nothing but an indistinct red haze that made his head hurt.

"I should take you to the hospital," Danny said, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand on Steve's knee.

Steve shook his head, and grimaced as the movement made the dizziness worse, and his stomach threatened to revolt. It felt like he had poison eating away at his gut, at his mind, but he did not want to go to the hospital. Didn't want a doctor poking and prodding at him, because there was nothing wrong. Nothing that he hadn't faced before, on his own.

"No hospitals," Steve said.

Danny squeezed his knee. "Are you sure? You look like you're about to keel over, babe, and you're telling me that you don't know what happened to you last night. Like I said, Frankenstein's second cousin, twice removed."

Steve leaned back against the pillows, and focused on breathing in and out through his nose, focused on the feel of Danny's hand on his knee, on the dip in the bed where his partner sat, on getting his rebellious stomach under control so that he could open his eyes and reassure Danny that, even though he couldn't remember what had happened, and he looked like he'd been taken apart and put back together by a fictional doctor, he was fine.

"I'm-"

"The next word out of your mouth had better not be fine," Danny said. "You aren't fine."

And he wasn't. Not by a longshot, but whatever had happened to him, he knew that, no matter what the damage looked like, he _was_ going to be okay. Eventually. And going to a doctor wasn't going to do much for him, other than give him painkillers that would probably make his memory of whatever had happened to him worse than it already was. He had a feeling that he needed to remember whatever had happened to him as soon as he possibly could.

Lives might be in danger, or he might have to pay a fine, or owe the governor a favor for helping to sweep whatever had happened under the rug so as not to embarrass himself or the reputation of the task force. Steve had an inkling that it was something worse than that, though. That whatever _had_ happened to him was something that he hadn't had any control over.

"Nothing's broken, and -"

"While that may be true," Danny said, shifting his weight, and eyeing Steve speculatively. "You are not fine, Steven. You -"

"Look like something the cat dragged in?" Steve supplied.

"Something like that," Danny agreed.

"It looks worse than it is," Steve said, despite the fact that he had no idea how bad he looked.

He couldn't trust Danny not to exaggerate in the description of his condition. His partner's tendency toward hyperbole was well known.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall," Danny murmured.

"I'm...I'll be fine," Steve said, amending what he was going to say at the last minute, in deference to Danny's propensity to call him on his bullshit.

"Yeah, well, that remains to be seen," Danny said, sighing.

Steve relaxed, knowing that a visit to the hospital wasn't imminent, that he'd at least managed to avoid that catastrophe. He settled back against the pillows, feeling the pull of sleep once again.

Had he known that he'd already slept half of the day away, Steve would have been alarmed, but Danny didn't say anything about it until Steve slept through to the next afternoon and woke with a start, chasing an elusive memory of a faceless man wearing leather gloves, and wielding a whip that slashed at Steve's skin with the snap of a bandaged wrist. Disoriented, it took Steve several seconds to figure out where he was, and that it wasn't a cartoon-like satan standing over him with a whip, but Danny with a glass of water, and a worried look on his face.

"That's it," Danny said, placing a hand on Steve's forehead, lips pursing when Steve flinched. "I'm-"

"Not going to the hospital," Steve said, cutting off Danny's argument without even knowing for sure that Danny was going to say that.

"Going to make dinner, get you an icepack for that impressive swollen eye that seems to be taking up half of your face, and maybe take up Steve-sitting for a hobby, not necessarily in that order," Danny said. "If you're feeling up to it, hobble your way into the bathroom and take a shower, get cleaned up a bit. I'll be downstairs trying to rustle up something that is not a salad or tofu, or whatever the hell else it is that you keep in that fridge of yours, for dinner."

Steve barely had time to blink before Danny was gone, leaving him to his own devices. Just getting to his feet was an exercise in pain, but he reminded himself that he'd felt worse before, and that this wasn't as bad as it could be, and that staying in bed would only make it harder for him to move later. It was tempting to wait for later, but he did not have that luxury with Danny puttering around in his kitchen, making an impressive amount of noise. Even when he was just cooking, Danny was a force to be reckoned with.

The warm water felt good on his bruises, though any sudden movement made him dizzy. Steve spent more than his customary amount of time in the shower, hoping to ease some of the stiffness from his joints and some of the pain from his bruised body.

He glanced perfunctorily at himself in the mirror, agreeing with Danny's assessment from the day before, and moved gingerly, choosing to dress in a pair of loose sweats and a worn tee-shirt. It hurt to move his arms above his head, but Steve ignored the pain, pushing it to the back of his mind, and focused on his breathing, on the sounds of pots and pans being banged around in his kitchen, of Danny's voice raised in some kind of rambling melody.

It hurt to smile, and Steve grimaced. He used the wall for support as he made his way to the kitchen, and leaned inside the doorway, watching his partner whip up some kind of meal that apparently called for the use of every pan that Steve owned. He would have laughed at the sight, offered to lend Danny a helping hand, but it was hard enough to remain standing somewhat upright at the moment, anything more than that was painful even to think about.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Steve said, wincing at the grating quality of his voice. "I -"

"I know, you can do every damn thing on your own," Danny said. He didn't turn around. Didn't stop whatever it was that he was doing - cutting an onion, it looked like, though he could easily have been cutting something else - to address Steve. He continued to work, back turned to Steve, the rhythmic sound of a knife hitting the wooden cutting board overly loud in the silence of Steve's home.

"It's not that," Steve said, pausing.

Trying to find the right words to communicate with Danny was sometimes a lot like trying to outmaneuver MacGyver with a roll of duct tape and a makeshift molotov cocktail comprised of cooking sherry and a ripped up t-shirt. Steve was good, but he wasn't that good, and he'd never been great with words. Not like Danny who could easily lob them like they were hand grenades and cut a man down without the aid of actual weaponry. They didn't make tac vests for what Danny could do with a few well-placed words.

"Then what is it?" Danny asked, knife stilling mid-air, poised over the next item to be chopped - it looked like a carrot - for whatever it was that Danny was making.

"You don't have to take care of me, Danny," Steve said. "I'm a grown man, and..." Steve winced at the ferocity at which Danny resumed his cutting. The chopping board would no doubt carry the full brunt of Danny's ire in deep knicks that would be great hosts for bacteria. Not that Steve was dumb enough to say any of that aloud.

"Fine, I'll leave," Danny said, but he grabbed the next item on the chopping block, as though his hands had minds of their own, and proceeded to cut it up into itty bitty pieces.

Steve flexed his fingers, felt a phantom numbness, and swallowed, fought back a wave of vertigo as Danny turned toward him, anger evident in every muscle. Steve struggled to remain upright as the world seemed to tilt, the tiled floor of his kitchen rushing up to meet him.

It was Danny who kept him from face planting - lips thinned, nostrils flaring, cheeks red flames - and sat him down in a chair, pressed cool fingers to the back of Steve's neck and coached him to breathe until his lungs and vision cleared, and the world righted itself again. Steve's mouth was dry, and his head was pounding, and he had no idea what to make of the shag carpeting that he kept picturing whenever his eyes slid closed.

"I'm not leaving," Danny said after a long moment, voice daring Steve to contradict him.

He handed Steve a glass of water, said nothing at how much Steve's hands shook, but helped him bring the glass to his lips, and then placed it on the table when Steve had finished. He helped Steve take another round of aspirin, gave him a glass of cool milk to wash them down with, and then, after it was clear that Steve could hold his own, and wouldn't topple sideways off the chair, he went back to his work, pulling the knife from where he'd stuck it into the cutting board.

Embarrassed, and mollified, Steve watched Danny as he worked, head propped up on his arms that rested on the table. He was nearly lulled to sleep by the way his partner seemed to waltz around the kitchen as he put the meal together. It was, if Steve pushed aside his need to prove his ability to take care of himself on his own, kind of nice to have someone else care for him.

"I'm going to feed you, give you something a little stronger than aspirin, and then I'm going to get you back to bed," Danny said, back to Steve, hand on one hip, wooden spoon held to his lips as he blew on the contents of it, tasted and then shook some salt into the simmering pot. "And you're going to sleep so that you can heal and get back into tip-top shape, and then we're going to talk about what is and is not acceptable behavior in partners."

"Danny," Steve protested, stomach growling when he caught a whiff of whatever it was that Danny was making - some kind of pasta and vegetable and meat dish. He was surprised to find that he was hungry, and that he didn't feel sick at the prospect of eating.

"Steven," Danny said, mocking him.

"I'm...thank you," Steve said when Danny placed a bowl of steaming food in front of him. "I'm sorry about...everything."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Danny said as he sat across from Steve, tucking into his own bowl of food. "Except for being a complete ass, and underestimating my ability to cook and look after you, and-"

"Will you shut up?" Steve asked, shoving a spoonful of food in Danny's direction before pulling it back toward his mouth and eating it. "I'm trying to apologize."

"Some try whereas others succeed," Danny said, lips curled upward in a smirk.

"I'm sorry, Danny," Steve said, smiling in spite of how much the act hurt his almost healed split lip. "Thank you for looking after me, and for cooking. It's delicious."

"Yeah, well," Danny ducked his head, blushing at the compliment. "It's my ma's recipe."

"Thanks, Danno," Steve said, reaching out a hand to grip his partner's, and sighing in relief when Danny met his gaze and nodded.

"Anytime," Danny said, paused, eyes going wide and then narrowing as he jabbed his spoon in Steve's direction. "Though, I hope that you aren't planning on getting the shit beaten out of you again, at least not in the near future. I do have a life outside of work, you know."

Steve chuckled, and winced. "I don't have it penciled in yet. I'll be sure to keep you..." Steve blinked as a memory, solid, came back to him, and then he reached for Danny's hand again, to make sure that his friend was as real as the memory.

"Steve? What's wrong? You okay?" Danny was out of his seat, kneeling beside Steve faster than Steve could put his thoughts together coherently.

"I'm fine," Steve said, regretting his words the second they left his lips, before Danny's huff of disbelief.

"I just remembered what happened," Steve said. "At least I think I remember. I...it's...it's crazy, Danny."

"Okay," Danny said, patting Steve's knee, and standing, urging Steve to continue speaking. "Tell me what happened, or what you think happened."

And Steve did. Haltingly. The images coming to him hot and fast and completely out of order. He knew how he sounded, like a drunk man trying to talk his way back into the arms of his lover after having promised not to drink again, and failing.

Danny sat down, beside Steve, elbows on his knees, hands pressed together, eyes searching Steve's for something, maybe the truth. "So, this Alvarez lured you into his home, and then had two men beat you, and drugged you and then just let you go free?" Danny asked.

Feeling a blush rise to his cheeks, Steve nodded. He'd threaded his fingers together in his lap as he'd told Danny what had happened, ashamed for the atypical display of weakness, and tried to wrench them apart.

"You remember where he lives?" Danny asked, placing a hand on Steve's arm, and squeezing when Steve flinched.

Steve nodded. He remembered the place. Doubted that, with everything he had in that torture chamber of his that, Alvarez would abandon it.

"I don't think he expected me to remember anything," Steve said. "Or maybe he thought I'd be too ashamed to...to tell anyone about it."

"Ashamed?" Danny asked, shaking his head. "So you got a tooth knocked loose. No big deal. Don't think I didn't notice the way you were favoring one side of your mouth, Steven," Danny said, holding a finger up when Steve opened his mouth to protest. "In our line of work, this kind of thing seems to happen to one of us at least once a month, not that I'm keeping count. Believe me, you've got nothing to be ashamed of." Danny squeezed Steve's arm.

"You weren't there, Danny, he...he wasn't..."

"Playing with a full deck?" Danny asked, throwing his hands wide. "News flash, Steve, none of the criminals we face are dealing with a full deck."

Steve shook his head. "So, you're saying that everyone we take down is crazy?"

Danny shrugged. "Anyone would have to be crazy to take us on, wouldn't they?"

Laughing, Steve nodded. And a tension that he hadn't even realized that he'd been feeling was eased, and he could breathe again. He looked at his partner, took in the circles that were under Danny's eyes, the crumpled, slept in look of his clothing, and he felt a lump in his throat as he realized that Danny hadn't been home yet since 'rescuing' Steve from the bar. And to his credit, Danny hadn't said anything about Steve's stupidity. Hadn't rubbed in his lack of foresight, or the fact that he hadn't even thought of bringing backup along with him. He'd fucked up, and he owed Danny for more than just the tab that he'd paid at the bar.

"Don't," Danny said, nose and brow wrinkling as he spoke, and it sunk in just how incredulous everything he was saying, and everything that Steve had said, sounded. "It's nothing that you wouldn't have done for me if I'd been captured by some crazy old man and drugged and beaten and dropped off at a bar for you to pick up."

And Steve knew that it was true. That, yeah, he'd pick Danny up at a bar, no questions asked until he was good and ready to answer them, and he'd stay with Danny until he was sure that the man would be okay on his own. It was what partners did for each other. What friends did for each other.

"I'll call HPD, have them pick up this, Alvarez, or whoever he really is, and..."

"No," Steve said, shaking his head, putting a hand on Danny's arm. "I'd like to take him down myself. Well, with your help." Steve shivered as he remembered what the man had alluded to when he'd mentioned taking Danny and Grace.

"Alright," Danny agreed. "Finish your dinner, get some rest, and we'll take down the whacko tomorrow."

"You get some rest, too," Steve said, spearing Danny with a look that he hoped conveyed everything that he couldn't say - that he loved Danny like a brother, was grateful for his friendship, and that he wouldn't trade Danny as a partner for anyone else in the world.

 


	7. Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny knows that the walls were not closing in on him. It's too bad that some part of his mind doesn't quite believe that. Aftermath of being kept in a small space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short, and does not have all of the details, but focuses on the aftermath of what happened. I wrote the bulk of this on my phone while flying from San Francisco to Hawaii, and fleshed it out on my computer just now.
> 
> This installment features some slash (kissing).

There are splinters in his fingers from digging at the walls.  He hadn't made any headway. The walls had remained impenetrable, and left no trace of his desperate, yet futile, attempts at escape. They’d let him out only when they were ready to, after Five-0 had gotten a lead on his whereabouts, not a second beforehand.   
  
He knows, in some logical part of his brain, that the walls hadn’t been closing in on him. Knows it like he knows the back of his hand, the way that Steve’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, the way that Grace’s eyes light up whenever she’s got something exciting to share with him...

Knowing and feeling, however, are two different animals entirely. For all that he told himself that the walls were immovable, repeating the words over and over aloud, and in his head when his lips refused to carry out the mantra --  _ “The walls aren’t moving. I am not suffocating. I will not be crushed.” _  He still hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that the wooden walls (so much like a coffin, though made of something other than oak) were steadily closing in around him; an above ground tomb comprised of wood and steel and Danny’s blood and sweat. At the time, he’d thought of  _ Star Wars _ . He hadn’t laughed.   
  
There was a door. He remembers tracing the edges of it with bloodied fingertips, leaving his DNA behind in the cracks; minute samples of blood and torn strips of skin, like a victim scratching at their attacker, leaving bloodied gouges behind, gathering traces of identifying materials that would later be used by police and prosecutors. Except, there had been no one attacking him. He’d just been taken and locked in a dark, wooden room without water or a pot to piss in.   
  
His nails are worn down to jagged nubs. He used to bite his nails when he was a kid. A nasty habit he'd carried into early adulthood, and one he picks up now and again when life pushes him too hard. There's nothing left to bite now, though he needs the comfort of his dirty little habit like he needs air that isn’t stagnant with his sweat, piss and blood.

He’d been there just shy of three days. Steve’d told him that like it was some kind of miracle that they’d found him before he died of dehydration. 

His skin feels like an old man’s. Dry, dessicated. The back of his hands are wrinkled and powdery.    
  
"Hey." It's a gentle command, and the hand that grasps his, pulling it away from his mouth, and not for the first time since he was found, is warm, calloused, familiar in a way that brings comfort.    
  
"None of that now." It's a soft reprimand spoken in love, not anger.    
  
The tears fall unexpectedly. A wetness against Danny’s cheeks. Another miracle. Lack of tears is a sign of dehydration. He rarely cries. The thumb that brushes them away is gentle. Danny’s not sure he deserves it. All he did was panic and wear his fingers down to bloody appendages and then beg, without words, because his tongue was too dry to form them, when he was released.

The kiss is not wholly unexpected. Despite how Danny feels about himself, he knows Steve. Steve doesn’t talk when he can prove his feelings through actions. 

The kiss is a lot like breathing in its familiarity. It's tender, little more than a press of lips to lips and a broken sigh, and yet it's enough of an affirmation that Danny's alive, that he’d survived, and that he’s home in the arms of the man he loves.


End file.
